The Forty Seventh Annual Hunger Games
by OwlMist
Summary: Twenty-four beating hearts go into the Arena; only one comes out alive. Follow the tributes of the 47th Hunger Games as they fight to survive. Hear of their love and loss, their friendships and betrayals, their life and death. The Games are coming. Who will win the ultimate prize? And who will pay the ultimate price?
1. Eavesdropping

**A/N- It's back! This story was taken down a few days ago for being "interactive". I have made some minor adjustments to make it non-interactive, and all that's left now is for me to re-post the whole thing and for you all to review! This is the only chapter that I didn't save and had to re-type, but otherwise they'll all be up shortly. Now onto a look at a day in the tedious life of Yasmine Perez, seven months before the Forty-Seventh Hunger Games. Enjoy!**

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**Capitolite, Yasmine Perez**

"Oh yes, Omar, that sounds brilliant!"

I roll over again and pull my satin pillow over my head to block out the noise of my father's conversation. It doesn't help much; he's so loud, I wouldn't be surprised if half the Capitol could hear him right now. I've had to put up with this same exact conversation for the past week now. Well, parts of it, at least; they actually manage to whisper at times.

Finally coming to the conclusion that I won't be getting any sleep until they're done, I decide to have a midnight snack. My lavender-scented sheets slide off easily as I stand, their wonderful fragrance clinging to my nose as I make my way across the room. I pause at the closed bedroom door, looking into the full-length mirror fixed on the back. My reflection shows my short paper-white hair sticking out in every direction, which is not very becoming if you ask me, so I hastily pat it down with my hands before twisting the door handle.

Out in the hall, it's noticeably colder, and I begin to shiver slightly. Since when is it supposed to be cold inside in the winter? I'll have to reprimand Hobbes later, that damned Avox. Can't he do anything right? I don't know where the thermostat is and I can't change it myself, so I grab a pink robe from my room and pull it tightly around me. Winter isn't my favorite season. I can't wait for it to be summer: swimming, tanning, no classes, my sixteenth birthday. It's probably the best season of the year for just one reason: The Hunger Games. Oh, I love the Hunger Games! With the action and friendship and betrayal! It's really a wonderful show; I don't know how anyone could not like it. But it's not for another seven months, and all I have at the moment are the recaps that play constantly on the weekends. The 46th Annual Victory Tour is right around the corner, though, and at least that I can look forward to. I'm not allowed to bet, my father being the Head Gamemaker and all, but I do get to go to the Sponsor parties every year. I'm especially excited to meet Emory Taylors, the victor last year. I liked her from the start, and I knew she would win. And I'm rarely wrong about these things.

In the kitchen, there isn't much to eat that seems appealing, so I grab a clear glass and fill it with water from the sink. Ugh, if any of my friends knew I was drinking from the tap, I'd be a social outcast for sure. Tap water is so – what's the word? – dirty. I mean, it has to travel through pipes? Gross. Who knows what it could have touched. Bottled water is so clean. That is all anyone uses nowadays, at least in public. I'm only drinking from the faucet because it's midnight and I don't want to go find Hobbes to get me a bottle. I lift the cold glass to my lips, but a sudden outburst of laughter from my father's room startles me to the point where my hand shakes and all the water spills down the front of my shirt. Great. Just great.

I grit my teeth and slam the empty cup on the polished table. Seriously? I know planning the Hunger Games is a big job and all, but can't he do it quietly? There is so much work involved in the planning and preparation, but even I know that talking on the phone for hours on end and repeating the same conversation for most of it isn't the best time management. There seems to be a lot to go over, and the gist of what I've caught and remembered apart from 'that's great, Omar!' is that 'some of the mutts need to be shipped in from Eleven' and that 'Eileen is going to be fired for sure'. Really, if he wants to keep this year's Hunger Games plans under wraps, Dad's going to have to try harder than this. If I really wanted to, I could totally just eavesdrop on them and know exactly what's going to happen.

Wait… That's a brilliant idea.

I quietly dart back down the hall to stand outside his door. Then shivering in my wet clothes, I lean against the dark wood and begin to listen. Dad talks about trivial things for the most part: where to buy materials, the number of cameras to install, how to supply power to the force-field. I'm starting to get bored, when the man on the other end, Omar, starts talking of mutts. The usual for a Hunger Games mutt is a commonly seen animal turned into a monster that can easily kill several tributes. Last year I think there were a few plant-mutts, maybe vines and flowers that caused some gruesome deaths. Now the man on the static-y end of the line is talking of using some old mutts from previous Games. Lame. People want new. They want fresh. Old is exactly the opposite of new, and therefore people don't want it. Simple as that. "Dom, we'd better use the caves for housing the mutts," he tells my father.

"Yes, I want that part to be perfect," my father stands and walks around the room, still talking. "We wouldn't want our little mutts getting loose and killing tributes too early, now would we?"

"Exactly," Omar trails off for a moment. There's silence, and I quiver in the hallway, but keep my ear pressed on the door to listen. "Oh yes, I wanted to ask you if we could disguise the sky this year. It'd work to our advantage excellently."

Dad takes a moment to think it over. "Fine," he sighs. "Make it picturesque. That way it will appeal to Capitol audiences."

Omar can't mask his satisfaction, "Alright, I'll start on that tomorrow." I begin to wonder where the Arena might be next year. The way they're talking, I suspect a mountain. But then again, the response to the forest last year was positive, so that might happen instead. It's a complete mystery to me; I love solving mysteries. "I have one last thing to discuss for tonight," Omar's deep voice on speaker-phone cuts through the silence like a knife. "Eileen had this great idea to use-" There's a rustling of paper on the other side of the door that covers up everything he says. I almost curse, but I then remember I'm not supposed to be listening and I keep my mouth shut.

There's a long pause before I hear anything else, and I start to think that he's hung up. But my father speaks again, and I can tell he's smiling, "This is going to be the best Games ever."

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**A/N- Thanks for reading! Remember to add to your alerts if you like, and to review every chapter; all the ones from before were deleted, and the count is back down to zero, so review, review, review! Thanks!**


	2. D1: I'll Be Back

**M1, Silk Ballard**

"You look marvelous, honey!" Of course I do, idiot.

I look up at myself in the mirror. Blonde hair spiked with gel to seem menacing, slick bright-blue shirt, nice beige pants, my blue eyes standing out wonderfully from my newly-powdered face. Mother did a great job at making me look even more attractive.

"Thanks," I mumble to her, hoping she won't make a big deal about it, although it doesn't really matter because she's already walked on back to the kitchen to clean up after breakfast. I stay a while longer looking at my reflection - I do look very good - before going to meet up with my pal, Harlem. He's probably my best friend. It's not that I don't find Harlem annoying, because believe me, I do. It's really hard to find someone that isn't annoying here in District One. Everyone thinks they'll volunteer and win this year. Sorry to break it to you, kiddos, but that's my job. And everyone that's not annoying here thinks I'll punch their face in. Harlem doesn't think that, although he knows I could if I wanted to. He's weaker than me, so he usually goes along with what I want. And he knows better than to get in my way.

Today is a different story than usual, though. Harlem is essential to my plan. Without him, I cannot succeed. He can do things with only his words that all the strength in my body couldn't bring about. I need him and his manipulative ways. I need him today to help me achieve what I want most. Because today might be the most important day of my life.

The day of my last Reaping.

Reaping Day means something different to every individual person. In the higher districts, being reaped means certain death. To others, it means never seeing a loved one again. But here in One, it means fame and fortune. Style and luxury. Living the high life. It means honor and respect. That's why we train all day in school: soaking up strategies, practicing with weapons, and learning survival skills. We train for the Hunger Games.

I'm eighteen now, so that makes this my last chance to be a part of the Hunger Games. To become famous throughout all of Panem. To prove to everyone that I am, and always will be, the strongest among them. I will be a tribute. There is no maybe. No if. No might. I _will_. I _will_ make this happen. I've been dreaming of this for years, and now the dream will finally come true.

Even dreams require work and effort, though. So as I make my way from the house to Harlem's place, I go over the plan that has been brewing in my mind for the past six years. 1. Strategically place strong kids. 2. Bolt forward as soon as the picked boy takes the stage. 3. Friends will take out others, I push past the youngsters, get to the stage first. Easy-Peasy.

Harlem waits for me, sitting on the porch with a pile of assorted knickknacks in his lap. He seems so preoccupied that I can sneak up on him, even if my feet do slosh on the rain-soaked path. "Boo!" I shout in his ear, making him jump. I start laughing.

He spins around, sending a couple of the trinkets to the floor. "What the-,"seeing me laughing, Harlem gives a small smile. It doesn't seem happy, but perhaps proud. "You ready for your big day?" I can always count on him to support me in things like this. Harlem has no interest in competing in the Games himself, which I find strange, considering his Uncle won a while back.

"Yeah," I say as he leans to retrieve a purple marble and a metal ring from the floor. "What's all this stuff for?"

"Well if you're going to the Capitol, you'll need a token."

He holds all the things out, but I ignore them because his comment annoys me. What does he mean, '_if_'? I scrunch up my nose. "I won't need one," I say dismissively.

He looks disappointed, because he took the time to gather this stuff. "But you'll-..." I cut him off.

"I won't need anything to remind me of home. I'll be back soon enough." This thought sits in the air for some time before Harlem's mother calls for us to go to the Reaping Ceremony. It should really be called a Volunteer Ceremony. For obvious reasons. Nobody reaped ever goes, because every year there is an immense flow of teens that try to volunteer. Including me.

As we start off towards the town center, Harlem has to go round up some helpers, and I walk alone. Feeling the warm breeze against my face, I ponder what it will be like to compete in the Arena, and what challenges my setting will give me. I think about what my adversaries might be like, and how I plan to win. But that word that came up earlier lodges in my head. If. What if I don't win? What if I don't even go? What if all this work over the years has gone to waste? What if I fail? I push these things all to the side, trying not to shake myself up too badly.

Too soon, it seems that I have arrived. I push my way into the front of the eighteens, searching for Harlem, who is still only seventeen. The square is filled with those eligible to compete. The white marble ground dirtied from all the shoes of this districts' population of teens. Above the mess, I see Chanel Yearling, our tribute escort, in her tight yellow body-length dress and tall tower of hair, up on stage, talking to Morcia, a past Victor with scary features and jet black hair. They both look horrifying.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. It's Harlem. He is followed by two bulky boys who look to be about fifteen. These guys are going to help us, since they'll be further ahead in the rush. We silently nod, acknowledging each other. The ceremony is about to start, so they hurry back to their places.

Chanel steps up to the microphone, her dark green hair threatening to topple over. "Hello, District One!" A roar shakes through the crowd, and she hushes them before continuing. "We have an exciting day ahead of us," she smiles brightly, "so without further ado, Mayor Petree will make a speech!" I groan, along with many others, because I know what's coming. Every year, the mayor makes the same speech about the history of the Hunger Games, starting with the Rebellion. The Rebels thought that they could take on the Capitol. What idiots. I tune out his ongoing ramblings and mess with my hair to pass the time.

Soon enough, Chanel once again has the mike. She half-walks half-skips to the bowl of girls' slips, and plunges her hand deep into the papers. Slowly, she pulls one out and reads the name "Everett Dixon!"

A small-ish girl, about fourteen, takes the stage, and Chanel asks for volunteers. Immediately, a huge rush of girls swarm the stage, clawing at those who are close, screaming at those who aren't. One girl with fiery-red hair slices her way through the crowd and is beside Everett before anyone can stop her. The little takes her place back in the crowd, as does everyone else. They stare jealously at the new tribute, cursing themselves for letting the chance slip away. The volunteer girl is wearing a black body-con dress with a drooping back, which might have looked better on someone who wasn't so short or chubby. Chanel hands the microphone to the girl. "My name is Gabrielle Twain." A boy standing close to Harlem almost faints. He must be her boyfriend or something. What a loser.

Chanel smiles, takes back the mike and heads to the boys' reaping ball. I inch forward, preparing to run. Harlem glances over at me, and I smile to reassure him. She reaches in and plucks a name right off the top. "Silk Ballard!" I wait for some boy to go forward, but no one does. People are looking around. Then I think back on the name. _My name_.

A boy beside me punches my arm softly, and I start to move forward. I can't believe it. I was reaped. Nobody reaped ever goes. _Nobody_. Some idiot will volunteer, and my last chance at fame flies out the window. I can't let that happen.

With the stage steps under my feet, I make my face as menacing as possible. I even flex my muscles for good measure. Chanel raises the microphone to her mouth to ask for volunteers. "No!" I say immediately. She gives me a quizzical look. "No volunteers. I want to go."

She seems unsure, but shrugs. "Well, I guess that's it." She turns back to the crowd, most people grumbling that she didn't call for volunteers. I start to grin. It was that easy? All anyone has to do is say no to volunteers? I can't stop smiling now, because my dream is finally coming true, even if not exactly how I planned. "District One, meet your newest tributes!" I shake hands with Gabrielle, who starts whispering something to me, which I can't hear. But I couldn't care less. I am going to the Hunger Games.


	3. D2: Nice Try, Squirt

**F2, Shay Simballa**

Gretta swings the mace above her head and brings it down in my direction. I sidestep and jab at the air, grazing her light arm with my knife. She just smiles and whirls the mace in a circle around her body, making it impossible to approach. Too bad for her, I don't need to approach. I throw a knife. It catches on her sleeve and pins her arm to a wooden column behind her. Ha. I turn my attention to my ally, Ixi. She is fighting with Yvonne, who has a sword and a bludgeon. That one does love seeing blood. I hop in the fray and slice randomly with my knives, making small cuts on Yvonne. She turns with fury in her eyes, but then smiles. Before I can react, there is an arm around my neck and a sword at the throat of my ally.

Training with my friends proves treacherous, once again.

"You lose, Shay," Gretta growls behind me, laughing. I should be the one laughing. I pinned her to a wall! But all I can do is give an indignant scowl. That wouldn't have been enough in the Hunger Games. That would have gotten me killed.

"Best two out of three?" I throw out the idea.

Yvonne lowers her sword from Ixi. "Nice try, squirt, but no thanks," she sneers. I sigh. Squirt is not my nickname. It never was, and never will be. They just call me that because they're eighteen, and I'm only fourteen. Age has nothing to do with our skills, though. I can out-throw them, and out-run them. I just get distracted sometimes when I am so focused on winning.

I am released and I rub my neck softly. Gretta has no remorse. No restraint. If she was in the Games, I'm sure she'd win. This is her last year of eligibility, though, being eighteen, so she's been training harder than usual, and has been even less restrained. She wants this so badly, I think she'd kill anyone who stood in her way.

That makes two of us.

I've decided that I want to go for it this year. But only for one reason: to break the record. Otherwise, I'd wait and train to volunteer for the Second Quarter Quell that's coming up in a few years. If I go now, and win, I'll be the youngest person to ever do it. I'll be ten times more famous than any other Victor. And I'll never have to be called 'squirt' again.

Ixi helps me store the weapons in our school's training room. Gretta and Yvonne leave without putting away theirs. She and I walk back to my house for a late breakfast. She's really a quiet girl, and I rarely hear her talk. But when it comes to training, her actions speak louder than words. Once, she had both Gretta and Yvonne pinned on the ground before they had unsheathed their swords. She's a great fighter, so I like having her as an ally.

We open the front door to find my mother trying to coax a sticky brown paste into my younger sister's mouth. Father is in the other room, helping my grandmother eat hers. I go to the cabinet to look for something else. "Just eat it!" Mom cries, holding out the spoon.

"Mom, it looks like crap." That's the ever so snarky Keela. Always so sincere and honest in what she thinks. She finally takes a bite and makes a face. After my mother leaves, she gives the rest to Grandma, who seems to love it.

Ixi and I eat some leftover bread and cheese and then head to my room. We rarely go in there, but I have to pick something to wear for the Ceremony. All of Panem will see me when I volunteer, so I want to look good. After trying on several outfits, I decide on a blue, long sleeved shirt, which I roll up to my elbows, and some comfortable black jeans. Ixi wears my green cardigan over a black tank top, and tight dark jeans. We both put on lace-up boots to help us run well because we'll need as much of a heads up from Gretta and Yvonne as we can get. Ixi is seventeen, so she's decided that she'll help me get in this year, and try for herself next year.

Eventually it's time to go. We both head out, passing my family, and go to meet up with the other two. They both look nice, and also wear shoes made for running. But they are clueless that I will beat them. They have no idea that I will try to win. We all walk along the path. The clouds overhead are growing dark, and the temperature is a little lower. A storm must be coming in. Hopefully this Ceremony is quick.

We come to the top of the hill that looks over the square, and see all the tons of people. Teens chat and converse. Parents make last minute adjustments to outfits. Small children run around, smacking each other with sticks. Oh, the joy of Reaping Day.

The escort, Fargo, is up on stage, laughing with the mayor. He wears a sharp indigo suit, which is studded with spikes, and has his baby blue hair styled in one large curl, a style that was popular with some singers before the Dark Days. The craziness of it all is that he still looks less absurd than last year.

We are about to step onto the pavement when a girl and her boyfriend run wildly in our way, tickling and kissing each other. Gretta makes a face and even Ixi looks disgusted. They bump into us and look up. The girl has almost grey-ish hair, and is not attractive in the least. "Watch it," she says, as if it was our fault. Yvonne's expression immediately darkens. Ixi puts her hand on her shoulder to calm her, and we let the couple quietly walk away. Yvonne mutters something obscene, just loud enough to let them hear.

We break off and I go to the fourteens' section to wait. The mayor calls everyone to order and reads the history of the Hunger Games. It's a long and tedious tale of weakness against strength, in which the strong side comes out as winner. I just want them to hurry up and draw, so I can get out here before it starts raining. Fargo thanks the mayor after some time and takes back the mike. He welcomes us, congratulating us on our victory in last year's Games with Emory Taylors. She stands to be recognized, and brushes her light hairs out of her face before sitting back down and crossing her arms. She will be mentoring this year's tributes, and I'm okay with her mentoring me, for she was absolutely brutal last year. Fargo then walks to the girls' bowl and reaches in, grabbing a handful of papers, taking one at a time and dropping them back in. At last he reads the last one, "Jessie Fuller." A girl with long orange hair and a freckled face goes forward. I wait for the signal. Fargo then asks for volunteers, and all hell breaks loose.

I sprint as fast as I can forward. Younger kids in my way are either shoved to the side or are completely run over. There are loud shouts behind me of those who were caught off guard, in pain or in anger, or both. An empty pathway is left behind me, making it somewhat easier for my competitors to catch up. I don't risk looking back to see if Gretta is close, but I assume she is. I am almost at the steps when I hear a scream. "NOOO!" There are fingers tugging at my long hair, then fully clasping it and yanking my head back. I swing my arm to dislodge whoever she is, and my elbow connects with her face. I look back to see Gretta, on her knees, with both hands covering her nose.

"Nice try, squirt!" I say before running up the steps and onto the stage. Fargo hands me the microphone, and I steady myself. "I am Shay Simballa," I say, breathing hard. There are girls glaring at me, but I find Ixi in the crowd and she gives me a thumbs up. I take a seat and catch my breath. The escort goes to the boys' bowl and again takes a handful. He calls the name, but I don't catch it. A small kid comes up, and volunteers are requested. Immediately, the boys run forward in the same mad scramble as the girls, punching, yelling, and kicking. One kid punches someone about to take the stage and rushes up. He has curly blonde hair and a black shirt on. Fargo gives him the mike and he says that his name is Mackey Laine. The same arrogant girl with grey hair cheers. This must be her boyfriend. I smile. Too bad he's not coming back for her. Too bad.

They allow for us only a small amount of time with each visitor. My mother and father have already visited, as have Keela and Ixi. I wait in a plush green chair for the next person to enter.

My grandmother is rolled in in her wheelchair. She doesn't look happy as the others had, but regretful. "I will miss you," she says. I pretend that she means she'll miss only while I'm gone. She hands me a shiny metal ring with a knife carved into it. On closer examination I see that it has 'Shay' carved in it. I slip it on my finger. "It was for your birthday, but since you won't be here for that…" She trails off. My birthday is only in a couple days, if that's what she means. Her time ends and she is rolled out.

My next guest is completely unexpected, and not entirely welcome. Gretta.

She stomps into the room and lands in the chair opposite mine. Then she just sits there, staring me down. I try not to look at her now purpled nose, and instead find myself fiddling with my thumbs. "You…" She grumbles at last. "You beat me…" The thought makes me want to smile, but that would just make her angry. "You stole my last chance." I try to think of something to say, but nothing comes up.

The Peacekeepers signal that her time is up, and I want to say _something,_ so when she turns to leave I just blurt out "See ya' soon, squirt!" This does it.

She spins around and catches her hand hard on my cheek. The Peacekeepers now have her by the arms and are dragging her through the doors when she screams "Don't come back! You won't like what you find!" Then they're gone and all is silent.


	4. D3: To Fly Away

**F3, Vienna St. Claire**

I lay on the limb of a high tree with my eyes closed, just listening. The sounds of a vast expanse of jungle surround me. I hear the rush of a river nearby. Wind blows strongly through the trees, rustling them and shaking leaves loose, which drift down and brush my face. A squeaking noise comes from some cute, furry squirrels scurrying around under me. There is the chirping and buzzing of exotic birds in the air. One seems to be in the water, bathing, for it flaps its wings repeatedly but doesn't move. I think about what it might be like to have wings like a bird. To fly far away, perhaps to tropical jungles like the one that I'm in. But I'm not really in in a jungle at all, am I? And no amount of imagining can change that.

I open my eyes and sit up. There is no jungle, only the cheaply constructed public park. No river, but a rusty pipe emptying brown water into a sewage drain. No flapping bird, just a plastic bag in a tree struggling vigorously against the wind. The park provided the sounds, while my mind manipulated them into a more preferable place. And anywhere would be more preferable than a District on Reaping Day.

I slide backwards down the dirty orange slide, letting my small body move slowly down and landing in the wood chips at the bottom. I stand. Even this playground, which should be a happy and pleasant place for young children has been botched with foul words and obscene drawings on the hard plastic equipment and therefore rendered unfit for use by youngsters. Some people here find it necessary to spoil every sign of innocence in the things that the Capitol supplies and does. But I agree with this. There is no innocence in the Capitol's ways.

This park is run-down and abandoned. About ten families actually still play here, out of the whole District. The once brightly colored structures are now faded and dull. The tiny metal bolts now covered in rust. People don't want to be in a place like this anymore, so most avoid it. But I came to be alone, if only for a little while. I needed some time for myself before the Reaping Ceremony starts.

I hop up and pick the wood chips out of my short, black hair. I then step across the area to the swings, carefully avoiding any fallen screws or such. As I sit in one of the swaying seats, footsteps are heard behind me. Around the peeling green support bar comes Andrew, probably my best friend. Instead of feeling angry that my alone time was interrupted, I smile. He is possibly the only person who I could spend all day with and never grow tired of. "Hey," he says, taking the other swing beside me.

"Hey," I'm silent for a while, staring into my lap. "Is your family doing okay today?" Andrew's older brother was reaped and killed a while back, at age 14. This day can be pretty emotional for them.

He gives a sad sigh. "Yeah, I guess," he looks distantly ahead. I can tell that it's not an okay day for him, really. His eyes have a red look to them, as if he's cried. He sometimes cries around me, but only if something really affects him. But he doesn't say much more after that.

"Andrew…" I fall short. I wanted to tell him something that I've had on my mind for a while now, about how I feel about him, but I just can't find the words. We swing a while in silence and then finally get up to leave for our respective homes, and then the Ceremony.

I head to my parent's small house, which is not too far from the playground. I pass few people on the streets, for most are spending what might be the last time they have together as a family inside. Soon I am home, ascending the steps to find my doting parents in the kitchen setting up for dinner already. My mother is cutting some potatoes on the table, and my father is wrestling the slow cooking pot out of the low drawers. They're making my favorite soup for dinner, the meal when we're supposed to celebrate the starting of the Hunger Games.

"Hello dear!" Mom looks up while cutting, making me cringe as she slices almost too close to her fingers. Considering how much they worry about my safety, my parents sure do show some disregard for their own.

"Hi," I say, and I head to my room. Time to find something to wear. I pick out a pale blue dress that cinches around my waist. It's the nicest dress I have that I actually like. All my others drop all the way to my feet, but this one stops at my knees, actually allowing me to walk without tripping.

My mother calls when it is time to go. We walk as a family to the square. It isn't a thick crowd just yet, but it will fill in rapidly. I spy our district escort, a stick of a woman with maroon hair and a dress to match. Demi Lakehart, I think is her name. She's the most normal looking escort we've had for this district in a while, in my opinion.

I pass Andrew and his family as I head for the sixteens' section. He waves half-heartedly, as do I. This day could be made bearable if we both _knew_ that we wouldn't be picked, but the truth is, we don't know. Nobody can really know for sure. Anybody can be reaped.

Once Demi finds that a reasonable amount of people have arrived, she calls us all to order. A previous Victor and this year's mentor, Seamus is a middle-aged man with a balding head of light brown hair and a short beard. Our mayor has been deathly sick as of late, so he volunteered to read the History of the Games.

A few girls close to me are whispering about being nervous. I'm not worried, because I have nothing to worry about. I've only had to ever sign up for tesserae once, on a bad year for my parents. There are other girls who have at least twenty-five, so I stand little chance of being pulled out of the bowl. Seamus wraps up the history and gives the microphone to Demi. She moves towards the girls' bowl and quickly pulls out a single slip. There is silence in the square as she opens it and reads the name.

"Vienna St. Claire!" Demi cheers into the mike. I freeze. What? Who was called? I look around for Andrew, for my parents, but I cannot see them past the frightened faces of the girls around me giving sorry glances my way. I can't speak, let alone move. I was called. Me. Called from the Reaping bowl out of all the girls in District Three. How could that be? I only had my name in there, what, six times? There were so many others who had five times as many. I start walking stiffly forward, my face paled, if that's even possible. I ascend the steps just as I did this morning to find my parents, happy at home. But now things at the peak of the stairs are cheerless and gloomy. My chances of winning are pitiful, so this counts as a death sentence. Demi curls her arm around me and asks for volunteers.

Three may be one of the wealthier districts, but it's definitely not a Career factory. Nobody goes ballistic to volunteer. There are no crazy cat-fights to get to the stage first. We view the Hunger Games for what it truly is. The Capitol's way of destroying our youth and our hope. And now they are destroying my hope. They're destroying me.

I'm not surprised when there are no volunteers. I am motioned to sit next to Seamus in one of two empty red seats. Demi makes her way next to the boys' bowl, slipping her hand quickly in and opening the paper with pursed lips. "Oliver Spree!" she smiles. A boy in the thirteen's section screams. He starts backing away from everyone else, and the Peacekeepers advance. He then runs wildly, pushing others out of his way in an effort to escape. Maybe he thought he wouldn't have to go if he fled, but I don't see how running would help his situation at all. He almost reaches the fringes of the crowd when he trips and falls on his face. He flails around and screams as the white-uniformed guards drag him to the stage.

They have the boy in a headlock and are pulling him up the stairs when Seamus whispers to me, "I think you'll be my favorite this year." I might have smiled at this had I not been frozen stiff with fear still. I am going to die. I am never going to see my family, my friends. I'll never get to tell Andrew that I love him.

Then suddenly, I am uncontrollably angry. The Capitol has taken everything from me. My life will never be the same, no matter what happens in the Arena. I am so mad that when I shake the hysterical boy's hand, he winces at my strong grip. He glares reproachfully at me and I make my first enemy. Fantastic. That's just what I need.

"District Three!" Demi says smiling broadly. "Your tributes for the Forty-Seventh Hunger Games!"


	5. D4: Romeo and Juliet

**M4, Raymet Loverose**

"Caper, did you steal this?"

"I didn't. Joan gave me a Reaping Day discount. So ha!"

"Are you kidding me? That old woman hates your guts!"

"Well, she likes me more than she likes you!"

I wake up to the sound of regular Loverose life. Caper and Sage arguing with each other over some treasure or valuable that the other has gotten. My eyes open to find that my two brothers have already abandoned their beds in our room for the kitchen table down the hall, where they stand quarreling over a large jug of dark, fizzy liquid. I get up and slip on the neat pile of Reaping clothes that were placed on my bedside: A black button down shirt, some black slacks, and my pair of dress shoes. Then I join them at the table.

They see me coming. "Raymet," Caper grabs my shoulders and faces me towards the container, smiling wildly. "Joan only made me pay half price for this." Joan is an old lady who sells tonics and potions at the dock market. Our mother sells her glass bottles often.

Sage's expression looks doubtful. "This is probably cost her a fortune. Why on Earth would she give _you_, of all people, a discount?" I really don't know what either of them is talking about. Joan never sells anything worth more than a clam, seeing as all her tonics taste like clams. And now that I know that they got this from Joan, I don't feel the need to steal some for myself anymore.

I get out some leftover oatmeal from yesterday's breakfast and heat it in a pan on the stove. There are a few pieces of raisin bread in the bread bin, and I eat those too. Lumpy oatmeal and old raisin bread. Breakfast of champions.

My mother comes in from outside. She has thick gloves on, so she must have been working, even though it's a 'holiday'. Cayenne Loverose is a glass blower, making hand-made glass items from the sand on District Four's many beaches to sell all over Panem. "Are you boys still fighting over that root beer?" So that's what this is. Soda is a rare drink anywhere but the Capitol, and usually costs a fortune. I've never had any before, and now suddenly Caper has a whole jug all to himself? I can see why Sage thinks he stole it. "You should share it, Caper. It's not healthy to drink all of that."

Caper looks hurt, but obliges. They divvy it all into mini-bottles that weren't quite uniform enough for sale at our shop. I shove a few bottles in my pocket for Juliette's family and head out to meet up before the Ceremony. Juliette is my best friend. Well, she's more than that, really. I've known her for forever, and we do everything with each other. She understands me, and vice versa. 'We're perfect together' as my mother would say.

At Juliette's house, everything is always exciting. Her father is continuously cracking jokes, and her mother usually has something delicious cooking in the oven. Quincy is the eldest child, and he seems to treat me like family. "Hey, Romeo!" he says cheerfully as I step into the front room. He is eating a bowl of oatmeal on the couch and speaks with his mouth full. "Here for Juliette?"

I nod. "But I wouldn't forget you and Linny now would I?" I smile and pull two of the bottles of soda out of my pocket, tossing one to Quincy. "Where is Linn?" The tiny pale boy pokes his blonde head through the doorway. His blue eyes brighten when he sees me.

"Romeo!" They both have deemed me 'Romeo', after some ancient storybook character that falls in love with a girl named Juliet. Quite fitting. "What is this?" he says after snatching the bottle from my hand, giggling. I tell Linn that Joan made it, and he makes a face. He takes a sip anyway, and apparently enjoys it. I am thanked and Juliette is called in. She looks fantastic. Her curly hair is pulled up in a ribbon and she's wearing a dainty peach-colored dress. She smiles as I catch her eye.

"Why hello, Raymet!" She knows nothing of my nickname. We walk arm in arm out the door and down our usual path around town. After a while of the usual conversations, she asks me something that has been on my mind as well. "You're not thinking of volunteering today, are you?"

"God no," I say. The boy last year died a horrible dead, as has almost every single person from our District that has gone to the Hunger Games in my lifetime. Juliette shakes her head, she won't be volunteering either. We make it around our route just in time for the ceremony. We're a little late, but nobody really notices as we slip into our places amongst the other fourteens.

August Symmes steps up to the mic, scratching at his scraggly brown beard. August is a victor who has grown wild and unstable in the years since his Game. I hear that he's tormented with nightmares and often screams in the night loud enough to be heard from the square. "We have a special announcement!" He says, his haggard face struggling to keep calm. The mayor points a remote at a screen and a picture of our male tribute from last year appears. "Today we salute Atticus Wysor," the picture changes to a still of Atticus in the Arena. "He came in second place last year to District Two's Emory Taylors." The mayor gives August an encouraging look, but it just causes him to stutter and ramble, "He was killed by Mutt-vines on the last night, when they cut through his skin and slithered up through his internal organs." He looks like he is in pain by now, describing all of this. The mayor makes an urgent slashing motion, signaling for him to stop, as many in the audience are retching and August is on the verge of a mental breakdown. I close my eyes, trying to rid the graphic image of the boy being attacked by vines, dying slowly and painfully. It has driven any doubt about not volunteering from my mind.

The mayor now has the mic and August is shooed to backstage, because apparently he wasn't supposed to say anything about the dying. "Well, let's continue with the Reapings, shall we?" his half-hearted smile says that this all isn't going according to his plan, so he quickly passes attention to our escort, a handsome man with bronze hair and a lavender tuxedo. Calix Renswald. He struts over to the girl slips and pulls out a single name, reading in a practiced tone, "Aimee Jackson." A girl with curly blonde hair walks forward with a completely expressionless face. She stands nonchalantly next to the escort with her hands on her hips. "Any volunteers?" And for the first time in forty years, there are no volunteers. Either everyone suddenly has no desire for the fame and fortune that the Hunger Games could bring, or they are all too disturbed by the vivid images that August has planted in all of our minds of Mutt-vines snaking through their bodies. The blonde girl looks scared for a moment, and then regains her composure.

Calix goes next to the boys' bowl, picking one and opening it up immediately. "Linn Harlow!" Calix reads on the paper and then gazes up with an expectant look on his face.

Oh no. Linny.

Linny walks forward, his tiny body shaking violently. I'm slightly at ease, knowing someone will volunteer, but after a few moments of complete silence, doubt arises in my mind. I find Quincy in the crowd behind me. He has a look of pure terror on his face. What he and Juliette must be feeling right now. Linn makes it to the microphone with Calix and volunteers are invited. But nobody moves. They all have a sorry look; because they know he won't make it. He's only twelve. He'll never stand a chance.

No. This can't happen. I could never just stand by and watch as something like this happened to someone I care about. He's Juliette's brother. He's my friend. He's like family to me. I wouldn't let any younger brother of mine go to his death in the Hunger Games. Calix is about to wrap things up when I yell "I volunteer!"

I race up to the stage and hug Linny. His eyes are wide and brimming with tears. "Thank you," he breathes. Then he descends and I am left on the stage, wondering what I had just gotten myself into.

Calix applauds and pats me on the back, asking for my name. I think for a second about saying my real name, but I glance at Juliette's frightened expression, and different words come to my mouth. "I'm Romeo," I day distantly. "Romeo Loverose." Calix smiles and presents us to the crowd. I shake hands with the emotionless girl. She seems like she doesn't mind being a tribute. I can't say the same.

. . . . .

Juliette flies into the dark visiting room before the guards have time to step out of the way. "What were you thinking?" she chokes, throwing her arms around me.

"I-I don't know," I say. To tell the truth, I really _don't _know what I was thinking. "Maybe that I couldn't bear to see you or Linny get hurt." She looks up and smiles, because we both know that what I had just said was pretty cheesy.

"Quincy could have done it," she says throws out. I had seen Quincy, and if I had waited any longer for him to volunteer, it would have been too late. She sighs and we stand there, with our arms around each other. "You'll need a token." She takes off her bracelet and slips it onto my wrist. Her eyes lock on mine, and her lips form a half-hearted smile. "I'll want it back when you get home," Juliette and I both know there is little chance of me making it back, but right now that thought is the only thing keeping us from crying.

Juliette sees that our time is almost up, so she leans in and kisses me. There is so much that I want to tell her at this point, but only three words matter. "I love you," I whisper. Then the guards advance and start to take her away. I just see the last glance of her face, her tears falling freely as the doors shut between us and I am separated from her forever.


	6. D5: Destined for Death

**M5, Jakob Maniatacos**

I swing my arm and the racket follows, hitting the brown-ish ball and sending back to the other side of the net. Barnaby swings and misses, but behind him, Lotus returns the ball. Declan is on my side and barely catches it, but sends it back to the other team nonetheless. This continues for a while, until the tennis ball hits the frame of my racket and flies off through the chain-link fence. Again.

Barnaby whistles. "Nice, Jakob. That's the third one this week," he laughs. We all merge to the center of the rough concrete court. It's peeling and the net has huge holes in it. Nothing is regularly maintained at this school except the electronics. The kids have to have _something_ to watch the Games on, right?

Lotus picks up the rust-colored bag of tennis supplies and looks in. "It's the last, too," Lotus shows us the sack, devoid of anything but a few splintering rackets. Pretty much everything in it is ancient and broken, and the last of the peeling tennis balls sit across the weak fence that separates the school recreation center from the 'forbidden' woods. It's not like people don't go in the woods, though. Happens all the time. Just not when Peacekeepers are watching.

"Who's going over to get it this time?" I ask slowly. Last time, I was the one that had to retrieve some when we were out.

The other three aren't eager to volunteer. "What, are we going to have to pick someone from a reaping bowl?" Lotus wiggles her fingers and laughs, imitating our district escort's strange hand motions that she uses when she speaks. We all smile, but it still doesn't fix the fact that one of us still needs to break the law and risk punishment.

Declan gives a large sigh, "I'll do it." He nimbly scales the tallest tree, an oak with a wide trunk. There can't be any climbing under or over the fence, exactly, because being the power supplying district, Five always has a ready supply of energy to keep its boundaries electrocuted.

Once Declan reaches the top, he leaps above the fence, barely missing the charged metal beneath him. He clings to an adjacent tree branch and slides down. Then he tosses over a few of the nearby tennis balls and heads away from the fence to look for the one that Lotus chucked pretty far in last week.

Barnaby shakes my arm, pointing across the school grounds. There's a Peacekeeper inspecting the playground, no doubt making sure that all kids get to the Reaping Ceremony on time. He hasn't noticed us yet, but if he sees Declan on the other side of the fence, we're as good as dead. "Psst, Declan," I say, trying not to draw the notice of the guard. But Declan can't hear me and continues to mosey on through the woods.

The three that aren't otherwise occupied pick up the ball and start another game, trying to look casual and nonchalant. The Peacekeeper starts to make his way toward where we are, and for a minute I think he's onto us. "Good day, children," he says in the formal manner that most Capitol-trained people acquire.

"Hello," we all politely mutter back, hoping he'll leave before Declan decides to show himself. This man looks inquisitive though, and stays watching. "We're playing tennis," Barnaby states the obvious. We can hear footsteps in the woods, and try to make more noise than usual to cover it up.

The Peacekeeper watches us in silence for a while. "With only three people?" I get the impression that he wants to play, so I try to ward him off.

"Well, I _am_ better than them," I joke, hitting the ball. I cringe as it bounces right back through the fence, almost to where Declan is tromping around.

"I'm sure," he smirks. Then the guard surprisingly turns on his heel and starts walking away. "Happy Hunger Games!" he calls over his shoulder.

As soon as he rounds the far corner of the school building, we all collapse in a fit of laughter. We've fooled him! Peacekeepers can be pretty clueless sometimes. Declan appears out of the trees and makes it safely back over the fence. He looks at us and gets a confused expression on his face. "What happened?"

This just makes us laugh more. "Nothing," says Lotus, smiling. We decide that that's enough excitement for today and split before the ceremony.

I walk across town, stopping at the butcher shop that my family runs. My grandfather is there, sitting in his old wooden rocking chair. It creaks as he softly moves to deal with a customer. Grandpa Ron started the shop with his father, and every generation of our family has worked in it. It means that we're never underfed, unlike some in our district.

I grab the bag of food that was set aside for our family's Reaping Day dinner and wave to my grandfather. He smiles as I leave, heading home. Caroline greets me at the steps of our small house, her small arms enveloping me in a hug. She's only ten and I won't have to worry about her just yet. "Jakob, you have to get ready or you'll be late!" she declares. That's right, I'm on a schedule. I drop the food in the kitchen and throw on some nice clothes. My parents are heading out the door with Caroline. I speed up and walk with them.

I hear the 'festivities' before I see them, "Welcome, District Five!" I've always found it strange that _they _welcome _us_. Aren't they the foreigners? Aren't they the outsiders? The strangers? The aliens?

When the crowd finally comes into view, it looks the same as it does every year: sad, scared children and a flashy Capitolite trying to make the District excited. The truth is, not many people get excited for the Games, and those people aren't mentally sound. Who would want to watch our people die anyway?

The escort this year is a very heavy man with turquoise hair dressed in what looks like a shiny red jumpsuit. All in all, he looks like a giant tomato. He doesn't wait for our mayor to make his speech first; he just toddles over and sticks his chubby hand in the girls' bowl. "And the first tribute is-" He spends some time trying to open the slip. "Breya McAndre!" he says at last. There is a small shriek from the section opposite me. A short blonde girl walks slowly to the tomato-man. She doesn't look much younger than me. Once she makes it to the stage, I can see that she's silently crying. Poor girl. They'll eat her up alive.

Then the escort's arm is raking through the boys' slips, and one emerges. I have no doubt that it's not mine. I haven't taken any tesserae. There's no way it'll be me. No way.

"Jakob Maniatacos!" he smiles. What? My name? Several pairs of eyes turn my way, and I know I have to look strong. I fix a smile on my face. Completely fake, of course, but the people in the Capitol won't sponsor a scared-looking tribute. I step forward.

But I'm afraid.

I'm strong. I'm fast. I'm smart. I stand a chance. Then why am I so worried?

I guess it's because of the pain. Nobody escapes the Games unscathed. Whether physical or mental, everyone is done damage that is beyond repair. I've seen it on the faces of past Victors. Even if it's not visible, the Games certainly leaves its marks.

The escort claps when no one else does. Both of District Five's tributes this year are young. Older tributes usually win. Not younger. My district partner weakly shakes my hand, and I feel pity for her. She and I are destined for death. Destined for the Games.


	7. D6: Tough as Steel

**F6, Ryder Corvair**

_Fire. Everything's on fire. The train. The station. The people. _

_I'm not, though, and I stand off to the side in an area free of wreckage and flame, completely unharmed. I look around for someone in particular. Someone that I need. But I can't discriminate between her and the strangers as they all crawl on the ground to try and save themselves from the inferno that reaches out and grabs them with blazing arms._

_I try to call out for them to come towards me, that they're going the wrong way, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. My voice is gone. Then I realize that there is no sound at all around me. The burning train makes no noise as it crashes in upon itself. The voices of the victims are silent as they try to make their last cries. And not a moment after I notice this, all the things that I know I should be hearing come rushing into reality in a deafening roar. The shouts of terrified civilians and the noisy crackle of the fires and thunderous creaks that signal the building is beginning to collapse._

_But in my head, all I can process are the anguished screams. The smoky air is filled with the shrieks of the burning living and the wails of those who grieve for people who are already dead. But the voice of the one I search for isn't heard. I know she's here; she's still alive. I just have to find her. I have to save her._

_Some of the people are standing now, stumbling to where the help should be arriving. But no one appears. Nobody comes to their rescue. "Hey!" I scream out, trying to find her amidst the turmoil. She's still here. She has to be. I scan the faces of all the women, and suddenly there she is, turning to see me with a frantic look on her face. Her mouth opens to form words when the ceiling finally gives in and crumbles around us, burying everything I see in flaming rubble. And that's it. She's gone._

I wake up from the nightmare, shivering. Another night of terror and lost hopes.

It's been twelve years since the wreck, and it's still etched into my mind as if it were yesterday, even though I wasn't there when it actually happened. And though I try my hardest to not think about what happened, the details seem to be getting clearer every night. The smoke, the people, the collapse. All of it.

"Ryder, we're going to be late!" The anxious voice of my brother Axel drifts into my room and brings me out of the past and into the present. I remember what day it is. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. It's Reaping Day. I pass Track in the hallway and he pats my buzzed hair. "Atta' girl! Wouldn't want to get into trouble with those Peacekeepers again, now would we?"

"Hey, last time it was you who pissed them off, not me!" I protest, but it gains me nothing because he just laughs and joins the other three boys in the kitchen. Bentley, Axel, Track, and Boost. My four older brothers. My only family. They've taken care of me for almost my whole life, treating me as one of them. Sure, a young girl being raised in a house of teenage boys can be a little hazardous, but I've made the most of it. I can fight, cuss, spit, and pretty much do anything that they can do. They've taught me well.

"Boost, Ryder," Bentley motions with his finger for us to join him at the table. I fall into the good chair and Boost into the broken one, which proceeds to collapse under his weight. I laugh as he dusts himself off and leans against me, waiting for Bentley's strong words of encouragement. But unlike most people, who would tell younger children not to worry about the Reaping, Bentley insists that we _should _worry, "You two are the only ones left in the family that are still at risk today."

Track snorts from across the room. "With the number of kids in this district, and the number in poverty, I'd say your odds are miniscule," he smirks. He thinks he's all high and mighty because he had his last reaping last year.

Bentley glares at him, "However small, there is still a chance." It's true. Many a time have I seen twelve-year-olds get picked who only had one or two slips in with their names. I'm pretty sure that the damn Capitol rigs the whole thing so that no one is completely safe. Bentley turns back to Boost and I, "If you get picked, you will be judged from the very start. Be tough. Show no signs of weakness." I roll my eyes. No matter what he says, little chance is just like no chance at all. But I choose not to let my mind settle on it for long, anyway.

We hear the bell calling for all those who are still at home to come to the city square. That means we're even later than usual. "I have an idea," Axel says with a sly grin. It'd take too long to walk all the way, so he runs into the workshop and grabs the keys to one of the cars we were working on and drives it to the front. We all cheer and hop in, whooping and hollering out of the windows all the way. We pass several late-goers, including all the children at the orphanage. The Orphanage. The place where I would have been dumped at three of age if it hadn't been for my brothers. I settle down in the car and stay quiet for the rest of the ride.

When we arrive, the mayor is already done with his speech. Some Peacekeepers glare at us for arriving late, but we ignore them and slip into our places in line. The fifteen-year-old girls around me whisper amongst themselves. I know what they're talking about, I'm not stupid. They don't like me. They think I'm strange, that I'm too masculine, that I don't know how to act like a girl. Well, they're right, I don't know how to act like a real girl, but it's because I don't need to. They're just afraid of what I can do, and what they can't.

There's a new escort this year, one more ridiculous than the last. She stands on the stage, wearing a short periwinkle dress and golden boots that come all the way up to her thighs. The boots squeak as she steps forward, and a few of the younger kids suppress giggles, but this doesn't curb her forced excitement in the least bit. "My name is Delphine Marx, and I'm so excited to be escorting District Six's tributes this year!" It's obvious that this bitch hates us. She's been moved down from one of the higher districts, I think. I vaguely remember her from past years of watching Reapings with my brothers. We made fun of all the idiot Capitol people, including this purple moron. She talks with bizarre hand motions, as if she's tickling someone invisible in front of her, "How about ladies first?" It's not like it would be boys first, anyway; that's one of the many rules governing who will live and who will die. I glance over at Boost, who is giving me an encouraging look. He has more to worry about than I do; he was the one who took all the damn tesserae this year. Five more chances for him to be picked. I have, at most, five slips total. I have little to no chance of being chosen.

The Capitol woman dives her wriggling hand into the glass and pulls out one small piece of paper, and even though I know I shouldn't be worried, I bite my lip as she drags out the opening. Then she coughs before saying in a clear voice, "Ryder Corvair!"

My mind goes blank. Me? A tribute? This can't be. It's not true. I can't leave. I won't make it out alive.

But I'd still do better than half the little kids here.

None of them stand a chance. I do.

I've been raised by my brothers to be strong. They've helped me become who I am. They've helped me survive. And now I need to start surviving.

I remember what Bentley had said. _'If you get picked, you will be judged from the very start. Be tough. Show no signs of weakness.'_ What had seemed such a pointless conversation at the time is now my lifeline. I have to be tough. Show no weakness. That's not _too_ hard, I think. My fists roll into balls and clench my teeth. Nobody will deny that I am not the most fearsome-looking girl in District Six.

I shove my way to the aisle between the genders and walk to the stage, head held high. I will not be scared. I will not show fear. These two tasks repeat in my mind, over and over. Not afraid. No fear. There would be time for emotions later, but now I need to make a good first impression. Delphine holds out her hand for me to climb up, but I show that I don't need help from anyone – especially the Capitol – and spit at the ground near her feet. She can't hide her disgust. "Ryder Corvair," she repeats in an offended tone when I am up and ready. I am presented to the crowd and I hold out hope for the tiniest moment that there might be a volunteer, but apparently they all think I can handle myself. And they're right, for once.

I look out at the vast crowd, taking in their expressions. Some are indifferent, as if they really don't care who would be representing them. Some are sad, because they know either me or my brothers. And some are smiling because they think we might have a Victor this year. I just scowl. There sure are some heartless assholes in this place.

Delphine pulls out a boy's name and holds it at arm's length, as if it will yield another 'disgusting' tribute like me. "Darrel Bless!" A pale, brown-haired boy seems to have the same strategy as me: don't let any emotion show other than enthusiasm. He smiles strongly, but being in the same situation as him, I can tell that he doesn't mean it. Darrel is greeted by Delphine in a manner similar to the way she met me, smiling with her gold-painted lips, but his expression changes and he looks irritated. She then loses whatever was left of her cheer, and looks at both of us as if we were the cause of all her problems in life. "Your tributes," she says to the crowd, not even trying to force a smile anymore. Not many clap, but those that do are talking excitedly about how they think this will all turn out.

I shake Darrel's hand and throw him a sympathetic glance. _Sorry, bud, but only one of us can come back, and it won't be you_, I think to myself.

As we turn to go to the visiting rooms, Delphine leans in close to us and hisses something in our ears before storming off to a waiting Capitol trailer. "I hope you both have a happy Hunger Games!"


	8. D7: Nothing to Lose

**F7, Chynna Harrison**

I sit on the side of the road, my back to one of the shop buildings, not really doing anything in particular. Why would I? It's Reaping Day. School cancelled, work cancelled. Nothing to do but wait around until the time comes to choose our sacrifices. There are tons of people walking around in the street, trying to finish up all the shopping and whatnot that they otherwise couldn't have done. Few talk, and those that do chat in hushed whispers. Many others just amble all over the place, silent or alone. It's quiet, which is unusual for the Marketplace. I myself find the silence strange, but it gives me time to relax before I have to head back to my lunatic mother.

I close my eyes and lean back, but a not-too-distant noise draws my attention. Four boys are running through the crowd, carrying one toy sword and four large baskets of what appear to be paper fliers. They're my age; I've seen them at school. The town clowns, always joking around. They can get anyone to laugh.

They run to the middle of the crowd in the road, clearing a little circle, like a stage. Some people stop and watch to see that they will do. One with white-blonde hair, Keegan I think, takes the sword and raises it in the air for everyone to see. "The Capitol wants us to treat today like a holiday?" he yells. More people stop and stare. "Then a holiday it shall be!" Keegan thrusts the sword next to one of the darker-haired boys, who falls to the ground and feigns death. The other three start to cheer and throw handfuls of the papers around the crowd like confetti. They then run off, sprinkling the road with papers and cheerily shouting obscenities against the Capitol as they go. The commuters' rush returns to normal and I sit wondering what exactly had just happened.

One of the papers blows my way. I reach for it and un-crumple it. _The Capitol Sucks! _is written in colorful writing all over the front. I flip it over, and on the back is a neatly written list just for Reaping Day:

_The Capitol's recipe for a perfect Reaping._

_1. __Take one sunny day, grease generously with imminent death._

_2. __Add a District's worth of children, one gaudy escort, and a barrelful of parental concern._

_3. __Let mixture sit until tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. _

_4. __Remove two children from safety. Add volunteers and/or drama, if desired._

_Viola! The perfect Reaping! Enjoy!_

I sigh. But it's pretty much all true. This is all just Capitol entertainment. Here, it's a gruesome reminder that they can do whatever they want to us and get away with it. But there, it's a holiday; they enjoy it. They really don't care how it affects the people at home that have to watch their loved ones suffer and die _through a screen_. Not that it would affect anyone here that much if _I_ left.

I release the paper and it spins through the air, blowing out of sight. Those boys would get in heaps of trouble if any Peacekeepers found these fliers. But the wind is quickly scattering them and the clouds overhead are dark and heavy with rain, so soon all the evidence will be washed away.

I sit and watch the crowd start to thin out, but a raindrop on my arm signals that I should head back home before the reaping. I walk alone, my hands in my pockets. I have to run the last few blocks as the rain picks up and soon I'm drenched.

I enter the house, awaiting the worst. "Chynna!" a voice calls from behind me, followed by a hand on my arm. I turn around to find the scowling face of my mother. "Where have you been?" She looks me up and down, "And why aren't you ready yet?"

"I've just been out and about. What do you want me to wear?" I say, trying to sound cheerful. She'll get upset if I seem anything but excited for the Ceremony later. My mother doesn't see today as everyone else does. She has fallen victim to the Capitol's manipulative words.

She gives a loud sigh and turns on her heel. I follow her into the other room, where I find Ms. Zandra, the nanny, and my two half-siblings, Cassandra and Dane, who are only four. Cassie smiles when she sees me, but soon goes back to playing with her brother. My mother produces a beautiful white dress from a cabinet on the wall. "Wear this," she tosses it in my direction. "Although, I don't think you deserve it, considering you're not volunteering."

She's wanted me to volunteer for a while now, but I refuse to do any such thing. "Why would you want me to throw my life away like that?"

She raises her eyebrows, as if I'm just a dunce. "Maybe you would prove to actually be worth something." She pauses, as if to let me try to disagree, but I don't say anything. I won't give her the satisfaction of arguing with her. "But that's right. You wouldn't last through the first hour," she laughs.

This makes me irritated. Mothers shouldn't joke around like that. They should give their children confidence, not tear them down. "Of course I could make it," I mumble, not wanting to take it any farther than that. I turn to go, but she calls over my shoulder.

"I'd rather have a dead daughter who tried than a living daughter who's a disgrace." That's it. She can't just go around saying things like that. I charge her and she raises her hand to slap me, but Zandra intervenes, "Mrs!" My mother looks over to see Cassie and Dane looking at her with frightened eyes. Her hand falls to her side and she leaves the room, slamming the front door on her way out of the house. Ms. Zandra looks at me but doesn't say anything. I hustle to put the dress on and dry my damp black hair. Cassie and Dane hold my hands as we quickly make our way to the Reaping. Their father is working – like he always is – and will be excused from the ceremony. We never see him, but to be honest, I think the twins like Zandra better than either of my parents.

We arrive and I take my place amongst the seventeens. The escort this year is a woman dressed completely in yellow: yellow hat, yellow dress, yellow boots. Even yellow-dyed skin and hair. Jelena Hudson, fresh from the Capitol. She thanks the mayor for his speech and smiles. "Let's get started, shall we?" She moves to the girls' bowl and pulls out a name from the very top. I don't know if I would care or not if it's my name that's called. A week of luxury and then a short, quick death? Maybe. Maybe it'd even make my mother regret what she'd said earlier.

"Aisling Becker!" I just watch as the girl steps out of the section at the front, meaning she's only twelve. She strains to look determined, and her friends are crying hard and hold onto her as she tries to make her way forward. It makes me sad, these young girls every year filled with false hope until their inevitable death. They never live for long in the Games.

She deserves to live. She has people to live for, unlike me. Her friends desperately want her to stay. My own mother thinks I can't make it. Well I'll prove her wrong. I open my mouth the moment that little girl takes the stage. "I volunteer!"

My mind processes everything after that in slow motion. The crowd parts to make a straight path to the stage for me. It all seems so surreal, like two dark clouds are parting into a perfect channel of clear white sky. The girl from the stage runs down the aisle, hair flying and eyes streaming, and envelopes me in a hug, sobbing into my new white reaping dress. She's then pulled off by a Peacekeeper, and I am nudged on the back to start moving. I pass into the empty line, walking in a dream-like trance. What did I just do, again? Volunteer? For a stranger? Oh, well, it's not like my life has gotten worse in the least bit. If anything, it's gotten better. I'm now famous, or at least I will be in the next couple hours.

I climb the steps and announce my name in a firm voice, "Chynna Harrison, District Seven Tribute." I look out over the audience, and they all are having different reactions. The parents all seem to be crying in the back, even if they don't know me at all. The small girls in the front, probably the reaped girl's friends, look grateful that I saved her, yet sad at the same time. I see Cassandra and Dane, and they look stunned. But I can't find my mother; it seems she has already abandoned hope in me.

Jelena claps and moves to the boys' bowl. She shoves her hand deep in and pulls it back out in one fluid motion. She then makes a series of facial expressions before reading the name. "Canyon Lorensen!" A boy in the fifteens' section starts to make his way forward when a girl with long red hair darts out and throws her arms around him, sobbing. Two Peacekeepers immediately pry her off and give him a shove towards the stage. The boy tries to keep his composure, but I can tell that he's unnerved by this. "Canyon Lorensen!" Jelena repeats once he's standing next to me. No one volunteers for him, and when he shakes my hand, he just looks at his feet, eyes going misty. "Your tributes for the Forty-Seventh Hunger Games!"

. . . . .

In the Justice building, I wait for a while. My friend Ariella comes in and tells me that I'm brave. She hugs me quickly and leaves. Ms. Zandra comes in next with Cassie and Dane, who sit in my lap while I assure them that I'll be alright. They seem satisfied with the answer; although I don't think they know that I'm not coming back. After they leave, no one else visits, which isn't surprising. I knew my mother wouldn't come. Even if I _did_ finally do what she wanted me to do.

The Peacekeepers escort me to a car, where I join Canyon and Jelena in the back seat. It's a silent and very awkward ride to the train station. We exit the car and I suddenly have cold feet. I look out at the crowd, at my district, for what could be last time. I might never see this place again. I probably _won't_ see this place again. These people here will see me though, every night, as I battle twenty-three other kids in a stadium of death.

The whole place seems so dark right now. The sky is shadowy with storm clouds. Everyone in the crowd seems to be wearing black. Black dresses, black slacks; it's almost like they're all going to a funeral. Then it hits me. My funeral. I've signed myself up for death. Just like that.

But it was a noble cause, saving a little girl that had no chances. She has people to live for. I don't.

So when Canyon asks me as we board the train why I volunteered, I just say, "I had nothing to lose."


	9. D8: Don't Be Me

**M8, Artell Brooks**

I open my eyes, just staring at the ceiling for a while. It's Reaping Day, I know that much. Otherwise my mother would have woken me up already for my shift at the factory. Every day I have to work, but I never have to go to school. No, we're much too poor for that; I'm needed in the factory where I can earn a living, not in a class learning useless things that my mother could teach me herself.

I get up and get dressed for the day. Habit, one might call it. Never once have I been late to work, or anything else for that matter. I don't know what would happen if I was, but I can't risk being fired. Since my father is bed-ridden, the only sources of income are my mother and I, and even that isn't enough. Tesserae are needed to help fill in the gaps.

My socks slip on snugly and I search around for my shoes, but they must be at the front door because I can't find them. I steel down the hallway, careful not to disturb my brother, although will probably wake soon because of the smells of breakfast coming from the kitchen. I don't hear anyone else in the house, but when I come to the end of the hallway I see my mother cooking breakfast. "Good morning, Artie," she says, spreading a thick purple paste onto a slice of toast. Grape jelly. We rarely have jam or anything, so this is a special treat.

"Good morning, Mom," I say, hugging her and grabbing my pair of shoes from the porch. I shake the mud off and come back inside. My mother doesn't say anything. We usually talk a whole bunch, but she feels sentimental on days like this. Most parents do: the Reaping signifies two more children being kidnapped and killed. Because no matter how hard this district tries, few actually come back alive. We've had some successes over the years, but only a few.

As I'm lacing up my only pair of shoes my mother disappears, taking a plate of toast to my father in their room. He has a sickness that has completely taken away his ability to move and interact normally. He lies in bed all day, coughing or sleeping, unable to do much else. I go in every night and just sit next to him, wishing somebody could end his pain, but as far as we know, it is incurable. Maybe there's some fancy Capitol medicine that could miraculously cure him, but it would be way too expensive for us anyway. It'd probably be too expensive for anyone in the whole district for that matter, bar the Victors and maybe the Mayor.

I grab a piece of toast and slip out the door, munching as I slowly walk down the road. It's not often that I have a day of leisure. I decide to go to my friend Dal's house, or maybe stop by at Rowen's. They're my two best friends, and I'd appreciate their company on a day like today. We all don't have many more Reaping Days left before we're free from the fear.

Before I make it far from my house, a high voice calls behind me, "Artie!" I sigh. I know exactly who it is, considering nobody calls me that but my family. Balin Brooks comes running up, huffing and puffing. "Wait up!" I see he's still not in his Reaping clothes. He's eleven and has no worries today except for _my_ safety, but he still has to look nice at the ceremony.

I look back at him, my brother. He's like a mini-me, curly brown hair, smiling blue eyes, he just hasn't shot up vertically yet, and stands at around five feet. He and I are thin and wiry, like most poor, underfed kids here in Eight. But we find ways to make it by; an odd job here and there, extra hours at the factory: just little things for extra money to buy the things we need, like food.

"I'm gonna' come with you," Balin smiles and steps into stride right next to me. Balin likes my friends, and considers them his friends, too. And I'm alright with that; I love having my brother around. He's so mature for his age and he understands so much, it's almost like he's the same age as us. Well, almost.

Dal's place is very close to where we live, so it doesn't take long at all. When we arrive, Rowan is already there. "Hey guys," Balin smiles and runs in before me. They both nod and wave when I enter. By the looks of it, they've just finished up their breakfast and have been talking.

"We were wondering when you'd get your lazy ass out of bed," Rowan grins. I just roll my eyes and sit down.

"Are you worried for later?" Balin asks. Rowan has over forty papers in that bowl today. If any one of us should worry, it's him. I've got thirty, which is still more than a lot of kids in District Eight. Dal has the least of us, with eighteen slips. I guess if I only had to feed one other family member, I wouldn't have many either.

"Nah," Rowan shakes his head. "I've gotten this far without being picked. It's not likely I will today, then." I shake my head at his reasoning, but I don't say anything. It's better for him to fool himself than to be stressed like I am.

"I'd be scared," Balin crosses his skinny arms. "The Games at terrifying." There's a small pause in conversation when everyone is quiet. I'm used to these; I don't talk much when I don't feel the need to.

"Shouldn't you have gotten dressed for the ceremony already?" I look at Balin and fill the silence. He glances down at his outfit and looks shocked, like he forgot what he was wearing. Then he quickly says goodbye and runs back home to change.

"Speaking of which," Rowan mutters while looking at the clock, "It's time to go already." We push in our chairs and leave the house. A lot of people are also on their way, so the street is crowded with people now. It's hard to walk without bumping into people or stepping on someone's shoes.

Dal sighs next to me. I follow his gaze to a pretty girl with blonde hair across the street. Flannel. He's liked this girl for a while now, and every day at school he points her out to me. But being the lonesome kids that we are, we've never actually talked to her. Just admire from a distance. That's what works best for us: no awkward interaction required.

Soon, we all arrive at the square and Rowan splits off to go to the eighteens' section, him being slightly older than Dal and I. We join the seventeens and stand until it is time to listen. I see Balin enter in the back, a little late.

On the stage stands a man with a red hair and a thin beard: Merren O'Neil, a fairly young victor, only in his twenties. And next to him is Jenni Gladback. She's a rather normal-looking Capitol woman, except for her heightened eyebrows and her hair styled in the shape of an exotic animal. Today it's a white swan, perched right on her head in mid-flight. "What the hell?" Dal mutters, staring at her 'stylish' hairdo. I smile. We see all kinds of crazy Capitol crap every year. To them, we're dull and plain. And to us, they're strange and ridiculous. And Jenni is certainly looking ridiculous.

Our mayor hands her the mic and she giddily thanks him. "I am so excited to see who will come to the Capitol with me this year!" she gushes. I don't think a single kid here would want to go anywhere with her. Ever. But she just continues as if we all are just as excited as she is. "Ladies first?" Her white high heels click against the wooden stage. A hand of intricately painted fingers reaches in and skims the surface for a slip. She pulls one out and reads the name: "Lace Marion!"

I recognize the name. She's in my class and I remember seeing her around school, but I don't know her all that well. She walks to the stage with little to no emotion on her pale face. I can see the girl Dal likes starting to cry in the section Lace came from; they must be friends. It's horrible how being reaped not only affects that immediate person, but everyone that loves them, too.

When there are no volunteers, Jenni walks swiftly to the boys' bowl. "Please don't be me. Please don't be me," I murmur. I glance at Dal next to me and he is whispering the same thing under his breath. Please don't be me. I bet every boy in the district wishes that it won't be them. That they won't get picked. Pease. Don't. Be. Me. But two kids every year don't get their wishes. They instead get picked and are sent off to die. Death, every single year.

Jenni draws out the opening on the single slip. I whisper the four words once more before she announces in a joyous voice, "Artell Brooks!"

My whole world ends in that moment. I'm completely petrified. First it feels like someone has punched me in the chest, but then I don't feel anything at all. I'm just empty inside. Lost. Afraid. My life is over. I'm as good as dead.

It isn't until Dal grabs my hand that I respond to my name being repeatedly called by Jenni, who grows more irritated by the second. I give my friend a squeeze on the hand and start forward rigidly. There's no use in trying to look brave, because by the time I reach the front of the crowd I am visibly shaking. Jenni sees me coming and gets bright and happy again. I mount the stage, praying that someone might volunteer. But why would they? They don't know me. I'm just the kid in the back that rarely talks to anyone. Nobody will care, spare my friends and family. I'll die and there's pretty much nothing I can do about it. I glance out at Balin in the back as Jenni closes the ceremony. He's crying, his tiny body shaking violently against my mother. The sight breaks me. I won't be able to comfort him when he cries. Not anymore.

Lace shakes my hand stiffly and I look into her eyes. Is she scared? Is she sad? I can't really tell. She seems to have a plan on how to present herself to the crowds: don't show how afraid you really are. That's more than I can say. I don't know how the hell I'm going to play this whole thing out and so far I've only showed everyone that I am completely frightened. I'd better do well in everything else from now on or I'm screwed for sponsors. I need to make every move count. Everything has to be perfect for me to stand a chance at coming home. And I _need_ to come home. More than anything, my family needs _me_. So I won't let them down. Watch out Panem, because I'll do anything and everything to win these Games.


	10. D9: Tables Are Turned

**A/N- I posted this right before The Purge, so it may be new to some. We're all caught up now; all the old chapters (minus Train Rides) have been posted, and you can look forward to new updates in the near future!**

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**M6, Paiton Kinne**

I stroll down the street with Monroe, Quentin, and Indy, some of my friends. There's nothing much to do today, considering school is let off for the Reapings. Reaping Day is nothing for me to worry too much about, considering my sister Taelor was the one that took the tesserae this year, but it still puts me on edge. Who knows what could happen later? Everyone has a chance of being picked. Even me.

Nothing to do means we could do anything. But instead, we choose to do nothing. For now, we are only a group of boys sauntering around in the street, idly going wherever our feet take us. We make quiet conversation, but nothing too important. Today is just a sluggish, lazy day. If it wasn't almost time for the Reaping Ceremony, I might have been sleeping at home.

Whenever a group of girls passes us Indy jabs me in the side, raising his eyebrows. He knows how I am around girls. I flirt and hit on every pretty face that comes in sight. Call me crazy, but isn't that what teenage guys are supposed to do? I don't know why, but Indy finds it hilarious. Maybe it's because he can't get a girl to talk to him to save his life. I'm better at it than him for mostly one reason: my appearance. Athletic build, sharp features, dark hair; I guess here in Nine that's considered attractive.

Some people would call me a player. A ladies' man. Maybe even a heartbreaker. That's just ridiculous, though. How can you call a fourteen year old a 'player,' anyway? I admit it, I can be a flirt at times, but I still have a heart. I still have feelings. Some people just don't see that under my joking exterior.

We keep ambling on, weaving through the thickening crowd. It must be getting late; everyone is coming out of their buildings and heading towards the square. I scan the crowd for a familiar face. Most of these people I don't know, but my eye catches on one person in particular. Whenever she's in a crowd, my eyes seem drawn to her. It's like she's all I need to see. Morgahn Lytle, my biggest mistake.

Morgahn and I used to be friends. Used to be. That was a few years ago. Back then, she had a huge crush on me, and I couldn't care less. She wasn't really my type, my type being attractive and pretty girls. I just looked right through her, seeing as her frizzy brown hair and crooked teeth didn't even qualify as 'okay' in my eyes. She made advances, but I just ignored her. Why would I want her? She wasn't the least bit pretty, and compared to all the other girls that liked me, she didn't really stand a chance. Soon Morgahn got over me, and I was fine by that. I didn't really ever talk to her again. But during the time in which we haven't been friends, the homely girl I once knew transformed into a beautiful young lady, her frizzed hair turned to smooth chocolate locks, her crooked teeth now straight and white, and her once blemished complexion now smooth and perfect. She's beautiful, and any boy in their right mind would fall for her. Nobody can deny that they'd be lucky to have her. But considering how I treated her before, she probably won't ever like me again. I'm the one with a crush now. I'm the one that's ignored. The tables are turned and they're not in my favor. Karma's a bitch.

Indy follows my gaze and laughs. "Just say 'hi,' already," he whispers. Morgahn looks our way, and I seize my chance. I smile and wave, but she rolls her eyes and keeps walking. Damn, rejection sucks. But I deserve it, considering I rejected her so harshly back when she actually liked me.

As we flow with the current of the crowd, we somehow make it to the Town Center. The majority of the population is already getting settled in their sections. The four of us ease into spots in the fourteens' division, and I glance over in the direction of Taelor. My sister is with the other eighteens and doesn't even notice my presence in the Square. Oh well, the Ceremony's starting anyway.

Bellamy Rogue is the Capitol man up on stage, the escort, this year. His sky-colored skin really looks great with his dark blue hair and matching bubble-like-suit. Just kidding, he looks like a mound of blueberries. He grabs the microphone after the mayor makes his speech and hurriedly goes to the girls' bowl. He slips a name out and runs back to center stage without stopping. "Allisynn Chase," Bellamy says in a bored tone. A sixteen-year-old stumbles from the crowd and slowly makes her way to the stage, sobbing and brushing her blond hair out of her face. As soon as she arrives at the top step, the escort hurries to the boys' bowl, not even bothering to ask for volunteers. He pulls a name and just as fast as before reads it: "Paiton Kinne."

What? Me? ... Shit...

I plaster the most generic brave-guy look I can muster upon my face and walk to the stage. _I have to stay strong,_ I tell myself, _I have to stay strong_. I don't bother looking at those around me, for it'll break my concentration; I just focus on what's ahead. Bellamy taps his foot impatiently until I'm standing next to Allisynn and he orders us to shake hands. Then we're rushed into the Justice Building without another word.

One Peacekeeper particularly enjoys pushing me forward until I'm in the visiting room, where they shut the heavy wooden door and I'm locked in silence. I make myself comfortable in a plush armchair and breathe deeply. I need to stay strong for my family and friends. This'll be just as hard on them as it is on me. Before too much time passes, my first visitor arrives.

In walks Morgahn. Her eyes flit around the room for a minute then lock on me. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. She hasn't really spoken to me in years, and for a while I thought she hated my guts. Well, she could still hate me and just be here to rub it in my face. That could be plausible. I sit up in my chair and glare at her, convinced that that's what she's come to do. "Why are you here?" I say when she sits down in the seat opposite me. I try to sound annoyed, but all I feel now is sadness, and my voice reflects that.

"I've always liked you," she shakes her head, chuckling to herself. This takes me by surprise, but she just continues talking to me, as if we've been best friends forever. "You're strong. You're charming. They'll love you in the Capitol. You can do this. You can win."

"I just- I don't know how I'll play this all out," I lean back in the velvety red armchair. I haven't thought about my plan for survival yet, and even though it's required viewing, I've never really paid attention to the Games in general. Sure, I'm in the room while it's on TV, and I do the work that is assigned about it in school. But do I listen intently, hanging on every word, watching every single movement of every single player? Hell no. You grow attached that way, and it makes it harder when they're killed. I haven't had a friend or family member in the Games, so it hasn't fazed me much when both our district tributes die every year. And they usually die soon.

Her voice snaps me out of my other thoughts. "Just be yourself," Morgahn looks at me like it's the most obvious plan. Then in a more sarcastic tone, "I'm sure the wealthy Capitol girls would fall all over that flirty attitude of yours." That's probably true; I've heard rumors of a few Victors being used as prostitutes, and certainly they'd sponsor some of the more appealing tributes specifically for that purpose. The idea of me becoming like _that_ makes me sick, though.

"I'll try," I mutter, looking away from her.

"I have to go now," she whispers, hearing the man guarding outside rap twice on the door. Her sea-blue eyes meet my dark brown ones, and I think of how I've treated her, and of how she still treats me. A heart of gold, she has. I lean forward to give her a kiss but she quickly puts her hand between our lips. "Not so fast, boy," she says, her eyes narrowed. "I don't know where those lips have been." I inwardly sigh. She's still the same enigma that she's always been: one minute sweet and the next stern. Being shut down like that is new, but she sees me pout and adds, "Maybe if you make it b

"Oh, well that seems petty. I'm going to my death and you won't give me a kiss?" I let the words rush out, not thinking that it sounds a little rude, but luckily she just smiles.

"It'll give you a reason to fight," Morgahn shrugs. So _my life_ isn't a reason to fight? I don't have time to come up with an answer because a Peacekeeper comes in and places a hand on her arm. Morgahn gives a sad glance over her shoulder before exiting through the way she came. Well, that worked out differently than I expected. Maybe the whole Games will turn out differently than I expect, too. As Caesar said last year, 'Anything and Everything happens in the Arena.' If that's true, then maybe I have a chance to win this thing. Or maybe I'm just going to my death.


	11. D10: No Matter What

**A/N- Sorry for that major gap in updates. I had secretly put this on a silent hiatus -_- But I'm back to life now and I'll be trying to write every day so that I can get done with these blasted intro chapters. (Is it bad that I've been writing Arena chapters instead because they were easier to write through writer's block?) I don't really know how I feel about this chapter, myself, but anyway, please read and review!**

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**M10, Lexon Hollows**

I sit in the barn, humming to myself as I shine the leather saddle Dad bought in the market last week. We've needed a new one ever since the old shed and everything inside it burned in a fire last spring. It's pretty worn, with parts caked in mud and frays on the edges, but it's still usable; we'd never have been able to afford a brand new one, anyway. I haven't had any time before now to give it a good cleaning – which it needs desperately if I am to ever use it – but since I still have chores to do, even on Reaping Day, the time I get off is short and I won't get much done.

"Lexon!" Drift calls me from the house porch. I can see her through the half-open barn door tapping her foot impatiently on the ground, crossing her arms. Her light brown hair that we both have is tied up in a messy bun and she's wearing a nice white sundress with a blue ribbon wrapped around the waist. It must be time for the Reaping; she'd never be wearing something like that normally. I must admit that she looks pretty, but the scowl she wears on her face mars her appearance slightly.

I throw the cleaning rag in my hand off to the side and stand. Reapings come first, no matter how much they scare me. I'd rather be scolded for not finishing my work than shot for missing the Ceremony. The latter is irreversible, after all. Drift's expression softens when she sees me emerge from the nearby building and walk up. She gets about as emotional as I do during this time of year. But whereas I get twitchy and paranoid, she gets grumpy and irritable.

"Calm down a little," I say as I pass her in the doorway, "we still have plenty of time." On a normal day, this type of comment would usually go unnoticed, but today isn't necessarily a normal day. The glare returns to her face.

She looks at her bare wrist as if she's studying an invisible watch and says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Oh sorry, you're totally right. One hour is plenty of time to get from here to the square before the Reaping."

Woops, I didn't know it was that late into the day. I must have slept in later than I thought. "An hour? Are you sure?"

"Positive," she spits out. "Now you'll have to run to town on your own, because we're leaving now." Right on cue, Beetle and Pax, my two brothers, step out of the house, outfitted in what must be Dad's old suits. They both look well-dressed, which is more than I can say about myself, for I haven't yet changed out of my overalls and muddy boots. They soon start walking quickly down the well-traveled dirt road that leads to the city circle where the District's Reapings will be held, and I head into the house to change.

Drift had already laid out Dad's thinnest suit for me to wear. I'm much thinner than Beetle, and Pax is older than I, so I usually end up wearing the smallest clothes anyway. Thin, lanky arms and long legs also mean that almost nothing actually fits me the way it's supposed to.

I look in the bathroom mirror to check that there's nothing stuck in my hair or on my face, and then slip out of my clothes and into the suit. Everything's fine until I try to stick my arm through the sleeve and it rips clean off. Great. Just great. Groaning, I throw it all in a pile on the floor and just put my overalls back on with a clean white shirt underneath. Good enough. It's not like all the attention will be on me anyway, right?

Our little ranch is far away from the inner town, and anyone else for that matter, but I guess most are. It takes, on average, eighty minutes to walk the trek, forty minutes if riding a horse. I do neither, sprinting the distance with extremely short stops to catch my breath. God, I hate running. I catch up with my siblings in no time. Drift looked anxious for a moment, but when she saw me running up behind her, her eyes instantly showed her relief. Oh, so she was worried after all? Wouldn't want me to get shot, now would she?

We have to flat out run most of the way, but we actually make it to the ceremony on time, to my surprise. There are a few irritated looks shared amongst the Peacekeepers as we sign in, but we make it in all right.

Apparently we have a new escort this year. The one from last year was punched in the face by the boy tribute when they were arriving at the Capitol because she was so goddamn annoying, so it's no wonder she was replaced. Now the Capitol representative is a man with a completely bald head and very tan skin. The only things that look very Capitolesque about him are his well-groomed purple facial hair and his abstract-looking all-white suit. He paces on stage behind the speaking mayor, silently reading small cards that must contain his lines.

I take my place in the seventeens and catch my breath while the mayor finishes up. He's usually long-winded, so I'm glad that I missed most of his speech. The man with the purple beard steps forward when he's done and looks out over the crowd. "My name is Toivo Quay, everybody, and it truly is an honor to be here in District Ten with you all!" he smiles widely with all of his perfectly white teeth. But nobody claps. Nobody says a word. Nobody cares. This does not deter him however, and he continues right on his merry way, "The lovely female representative shall be revealed shortly." The bowls of names seem to shine in the sunlight, making it hard to look directly at him as he grabs a slip from the girls' glass and unfolds it at the microphone. "Kyte Swallow," Toivo announces, the accent almost absent from his clear voice. A little girl, only about thirteen, emerges from her section. She has her arms wrapped around her stomach and tears are leaking from closed eyes. When she makes it to the stage, and volunteers are called for, no one steps forward. It's all dead silent in the square. The girl's lower jaw shivers a little, but apart from that she stands as stiff as a stone statue, frozen in fear. Poor thing, she looks like she's going to be sick. There's a small round of excited applause, but only amongst the camera crew from the Capitol. It's frightening how they don't really care that the little girl he just selected is going to be murdered. She might not even make it through the first day, by the looks of her.

Toivo moves right on to the boy's drawing. Selecting one tiny slip from the brimming bowl, his next words will decide the fate of one unlucky boy. God, I haven't really thought about it at all today, but I really hope it's not me. Feeling my breaths skyrocket in speed, I close my eyes and try to calm myself. _Relax, it won't be you. Not many tesserae, remember, not many. Only twelve slips. Twelve in thousands of others. You're safe. You've made it this far without getting picked, you won't now_. That's the kind of reasoning I usually try to avoid, the kind that doesn't really make sense, but right now I don't really care. Anything to stay calm. Besides, what are my chances anyway? One in a thousand? One in ten thousand? Not likely in the least bit. I'm safe.

A clear, calm voice breaks through my relaxed state and the two words I could never forget ring out loud and clear, "Lexon Hollows." My eyes immediately snap open and I stand there, staring at the man on stage. How in the world has this just happened? How could that man possibly have picked my name in all the others? I start to feel faint, but I just take a deep breath and look around. Nobody is looking at me yet, for most of them don't know me, but it won't be long before I'm singled out as the condemned and brought forward. _To my death_. No, I can't think like that; I have to stay positive, or I definitely won't survive. My new goal is to appear as capable and confident as possible. A serious look comes to my face naturally and before I can spend another moment thinking it over, I step forward. I focus my gaze at the man on the stage, not the people in the crowd. Drift and Beetle must be somewhere around me, but I fear that if I look at them, I'll break down in tears out here in front of everybody. That wouldn't help my image at all. And when you're in the Games, powered by the Capitol, image is everything. When I make it to the stage, Toivo introduces me and asks for volunteers, but in the moment I wish most for someone to speak up, all I hear is silence.

That's it. The Ceremony is over. This isn't at all how I imagined this day going. In a flash, my fate has been decided for me. I am to die in some foreign field at the hand of another, and there is nothing I can do to change that. Not now, at least.

The escort closes up and asks us to shake hands, but it's all half-hearted on my part. I'm only the shadow of the boy I was only an hour ago. I feel hollow inside. All my life I've built up a future for myself, and now it's been taken from me in the blink of an eye. There is no doubt in my mind that I'm done for. Crushed. Ruined. There are a few sympathetic glances thrown my way from the people in the crowd, but I know that on the inside they're just glad it's me and not them. The only person who might truly understand how I feel right now is Kyte. And even she can't look me in the eyes.

Before they hurry us off the stage, I glance out over the sea of strangers one last time and spot a familiar face: Pax, my older brother, the one who always has something positive to say, no matter what. His eyes are wide in fear and it's pretty obvious why; I stand no chance of returning. There's no one that can save me now, not even him.

. . . . .

I sit in a plush red armchair in the Justice Building, just listening to my own heart beating. I've calmed down immensely, and I'm no longer sucking in air like a vacuum. I'm not as frightened as I know I should be, but I guess that's a good thing. For now.

"You have five minutes," a gruff Peacekeeper says as he peeks through the door, then throws it open and pushes my family in. Not that they needed pushing; they run up to me and immediately start comforting me and wiping tears from their eyes. I almost feel as though their sadness is contagious, for soon my face is wet with tears as well, but they might not even be mine.

Beetle and Drift sit on either arm of the red chair and Pax stands silently off to the side, watching me with sad blue eyes. "We could have survived without tesserae," Dad paces across the nice wooden floor. "We have the ranch; we could have scraped by without them."

"You know we needed them." It would have been impossible to get by without them, with all the regular expenses and costs it takes to live nowadays. "And besides, it could have been one of the mandatory slips that was chosen." He keeps walking, practically ignoring me, so I stick my leg out to stop his stride.

He stops where he stands and closes his eyes. "I know, I know. But maybe you would still be safe." I sense he's about to cry. My father never cries. He hasn't cried since Mom died, and that was so many years ago. They loved each other so much, and he was completely heartbroken, so no one could blame him. He's such a strong man, always making us feel better when we cry or are hurt. If he breaks down and cries, I don't think I'll be able to keep myself stable enough to even make an effort at winning. I can't let him cry.

I stand and pull him into a hug, and it may be the last time I do so. "There's nothing I can do about it now," I sigh.

There's a pause in the room before Beetle, who now glances up at me instead of staring into his lap, says, "You can try to win."

"Of course I'll try," I whisper, releasing my father to squeeze Beetle lightly with one arm and Drift with the other. Within two seconds there's a rap on the door and the Peacekeeper motions for them to leave. Very slowly and reluctantly they file out of the room, leaving me alone.

I don't know how I'm going to do this, but I have no choice now. It's fight, or die. I have to try for my family. I have to do everything I can to win. No matter what.


	12. D11: Brain Over Brawn

**A/N- Another long wait, but I was working on writing a different story, heh. That'll be in the works for a while, I'm afraid. So here's D11, finally, and yeah. Thank you all for reading and reviewing :) It's highly appreciated!**

* * *

**F11, Danaya Kirachi**

I mentally roll my eyes as my mother begins to explain for what may be the millionth time my dull plan for if I am drafted into the death tournament called the Hunger Games. She rambles on like a college professor giving a lecture on a long history of some sort, and I really couldn't care less. Yes, this plan is the armor that will help me survive if my luck turns sour later this afternoon, but I've heard it so many times that if my mother were to suddenly stop talking I could finish her speech in the exact words she would have used. I catch bits and pieces today, but my mind has floated off elsewhere, twisting and turning around a number of things. I wonder about what trash the imbecile Escort will mistake for clothes this year. Or how many boys I'll catch staring at me; last year holds the record, seven. Maybe I'll beat it this year, I don't really know.

I twirl a curl of my black hair around and around my finger absentmindedly. It takes me a moment before I notice that my mother has stopped talking and is staring at me with a look of concern. I cease fiddling with my hair and look back at her. She takes my hand in hers and strokes it gently. "You'll do fine today," she smiles softly, "I promise."

"I know, Mom."

"Okay," she whispers, glancing up at a clock on the wall. "You'd better get dressed, my beautiful girl," she smiles. "I'm going to check on an experiment I've started, and I want you ready in ten minutes, got it?"

I nod and she leaves through the back door, heading to Greenhouse Number Two. See, my parents work for the Capitol producing muttated plants and fungi. We live very far from any towns, or people for that matter, so that's what I do with my time, also: help them. It's a well-paying job, and I've even seen some of their experiments in the Hunger Games on TV before. I think they've sent some to the Gamemakers again this year, which will be exciting. It makes me kind of proud to see their work displayed for all of Panem to see. Even if it is work that aids in the killing of kids my age.

I head to my room and strip off my day clothes. It's strange to me that they make us dress up for the Reaping like it's some kind of going-away party, but I guess in a way it is. "What color sundress? Red? No, yellow. Yellow is a happy color," I talk quietly to myself as I trail my fingers across the fabrics of the clothes in my closet. Naïve happiness is the angle I'm supposed to go for should Danaya Kirachi be the name that rings out, and I have to dress accordingly. I grab the pinafore style dress by the hanger and lay it out on the bed, then shuffle through the bottom of my closet to find the matching slip-on shoes.

Five minutes later, dressed in the clothes I laid out, I stand in front of a tall mirror making last minute adjustments to my hair, which I tie up in a ponytail with a thick yellow ribbon. Hair ribbons are childish in my opinion, but naivety _is_ what I'm going for, I guess. In the end I like how it looks and I lie down on my bed, watching the ceiling fan spin around and around. This could be the last time I relax in a while. After a few minutes, I assure myself that it won't be and sit up again.

Across the room, under a chair is a locket woven from blades of the yellow grass that flourishes in my flower garden outside. I had totally forgotten all about it, and go to pick it up. There's nothing inside it, but I guess there doesn't need to be. It reminds me of home nonetheless. I decide to use it as my token, and hold it in my hand until it's time to go.

I'm waiting in the kitchen when my mom returns in the back door with my father, who takes off some mud-caked goggles and sets them on the table. After a stern look from my mother, a second later he throws them outside and washes his hands in the sink. I smile inwardly before heading to the car.

Not many people can afford cars in the districts, especially the higher-numbered ones, so the roads aren't very well-kept. It's a very bumpy ride to the town in which the Reaping will be held, which luckily is one of the closest ones to our residence. Not that it's close, oh no. It's still hours away. And spending hours being jostled up, down, and every which way is not particularly how I like to spend my day. Usually we go over the day before and spend the night, but my father was knee-deep in special work for the Capitol this year, so we had to spend as much time at home as possible. Figures. I like spending time in the city. There are lots of people to practice my self-taught skills of manipulation on. It's really my kind of fun.

. . . . .

When we arrive, the first thing I do is find a bench to sit on. Everything seems quiet without the loud crunch of gravel under tires and I feel slightly dizzy without the constant movement that I've had for the past few hours. I close my eyes for a while until everything stops swaying.

My parents left to the Justice Building for some official business, but they'll be there to wish me luck by the time the Reaping actually starts. I know my own way to the square and make it there in one piece.

After signing in, I glance at the stage and see the monstrosity that awaits the cameras. Ventura Ogilvie, Capitol escort, stands in all her glory as the pinnacle of fashion gone wrong. She has on some sort of dress, like the kind ancient queens in textbook pictures wore, except with at least sixty different colors and patterns, ranging from red floral to green plaid. And in the center of that fabric disaster is a woman who looks more feline than human; cosmetic surgeries have altered this lady into a grey-skinned, whiskered freak. I can't even stand to look at her one second longer and turn my attention to the people around me.

There is no shortage of good looking boys here in Eleven, I can tell you that much. Several watch me as I shuffle through the crowd, and I add tally's to the list. I catch some sideways glances given off in my direction by the girls that live in the inner town, and I know why. Leave it to teenage girls to be jealous of beauty at a time like this. But I decide to have a little fun with it. 'You are beautiful. But a happy girl is the most beautiful,' my mother once told me when I cried. Taking that into account, the fake grin that I was saving for if I got picked creeps onto my lips. I wink at a boy who was previously staring and he blushes and turns away. When I see the effect that that had on the girls who of course were watching, the smile becomes a real one. Whispers, pink cheeks; I can almost feel their jealousy skyrocket.

The mayor clears his throat at the mike, calling us all to attention. I'm not in the right section yet, so I quickly squeeze in to the sixteen's before he starts his speech. As far as long and boring speeches go, Mayor Griffith's isn't too bad. He has a sense of humor, but it's about as dry as a desert during a drought.

When it ends, the cat woman introduces herself and, because we already know her, she gets right down to business. Reaching into the girls' bowl, all but a single slip escape her grasp. Ventura unfolds it, and in a cat-like purr, says the name.

"Danaya Kirachi." Crap.

The day I've dreaded has come, and I know I've trained myself, but I just stand there, petrified. Am I really ready for this?

Somewhere deep down, I hear a voice saying "yes". Yes, I am ready. I'm not the typical wisp of a girl that usually gets picked. Intellectually I am strong and I am beautiful, two things that most girls from Eleven aren't. I can do this. I _can_ do this.

My newfound conviction drives me on to the next step, appearing as weak as possible. I waltz clumsily to the stage, a naïve grin upon my face. Everyone I pass stares me down like the crew of a ship watching someone being thrown overboard. Absentmindedly I think, '_Well, the record for boys staring at you has just been blown out of the water_.'

When I reach the dusty wooden platform, Ventura smiles at me with all her sharpened teeth, oohing and ahhing over how I look because to her and all the other Capitol morons, image is everything, not that her image is appealing in the least. Ventura starts to ask for volunteers but she's been escorting this District's tributes for so long she stops because she knows no one will come forward.

I stand next to her, feeling awkward at first, but then I realize I have to make every moment of camera time count. I stand up a little straighter and act like I'm paying a little more attention, but really I don't care who get picked alongside me. They'll die anyway, so what will it matter?

Ventura has the boy's paper already and is reading his name, "Brandon McGregor."

I almost stagger backwards when I see my district partner. Tall, with dark skin and chiseled features, this kid is an absolute mountain of muscle, and he smirks as he walks from the eighteens' section in the back row. It would be very hard to take down someone like him physically.

Good thing I am a psychological fighter.

The way this boy looks around, how he carries himself, the expression on his face. These things betray him to be of little intelligence, and there I am his superior. I will easily manipulate him to my advantage, and anyone else I need. All according to plan. I flash him a "nervous" smile and he smiles back, looking me up and down. He's also just revealed that the key to getting him to do what I want is through my body, and that will be easy enough.

Nobody volunteers for him which was completely predictable. I can just imagine what everybody else must be thinking.

_Careers, look out, we've got a fighter from District Eleven this year! _

_He can handle himself, look at those arms!_

_That lad? We may actually have a Victor again._

Oh yes, they're all right about one thing. We will have a Victor this year. But it won't be the strong-bodied boy who can break bones with his fingertips. It'll be the little girl from out in the country who values brain over brawn.

And as I prance off the stage at the end, I only have one thought on my mind.

I've got this in the bag.


	13. D12: Show Them All

**F12, Adira Carlson**

My eyes flutter open just as they have every day for the past seventeen years of my life. I look about my room, rustic and simple as always, with small shafts of light from the one window beaming in and spotlighting the opposite wall. They've let me sleep in for a while, but nothing is too special or out of the ordinary today so far. But that's not to say that it won't be. It is the official start of the Forty Seventh Hunger Games today after all, and every year the Capitol promises that there will be more surprises and shocks than the year before. But the Games don't surprise me. They don't shock anyone I know. We've all grown accustom to them. As a whole, District Twelve doesn't get excited or worried about the Games like other districts might, for we know exactly what is going to happen. Two kids who might have had 'bright futures' in the coal mines are taken from their homes and their families and are killed, every year, no exceptions. As is the nature of the Games.

I have to cast aside the thoughts of how Victor-less my district is when my stomach growls like an animal, calling for nourishment from its master. But this this isn't out of the ordinary either. I often wake hungry because of a lack of food the day before. The Seam isn't a place where one often finds well-fed citizens. It's more of a place where people either live looking like they're only skin and bones or are lying dead in the gutter. And although my family isn't extremely poor, there are certainly merchant families in D12 who have about three times as much food on their plates and in their bellies as we do.

My long, dark hair hastily tied up in a messy bun, I throw on the yellow dress that I am to wear for the Ceremony later. The gold sequins around the neckline of the dress make my skin itch, but it's nothing I can't bear. When my white slip-ons are fully on my feet, I pad softly through the hallway and down the stairs to the kitchen.

Jerald and Vitch, my brothers, are already downstairs, happily picking at a squirrel. As I walk past the wooden table, I ruffle their dark, shaggy hair. This causes both of them to reach up and smooth it out again, giving me the opportune chance to stretch over and steal some meat for myself.

This leads to protest, "Hey!" Vitch exclaims as he pulls the metal plate away from me and Jerald guards it with his hands. "You can have some of the other one, we have two."

"What? Two?" I'm surprised we could even afford one squirrel from the black market in the Hob, let alone two. It requires jumping the fence and hunting illegally, risking death, to get meat such as this, and ninety-nine point nine percent of people aren't willing to take that risk, making this kind of thing expensive, relatively speaking. The twins just shrug their shoulders and continue eyeing me suspiciously until I step far enough away that I can't take their food.

"We don't know," Jerald speaks at last as he tries to smooth down his nest of hair a little more, "Mom brought it home last night."

Right on cue, Kyri Carlson opens the front screen door, which makes an extended creaking noise as it always does. She finishes off a conversation with Dad, who must be heading to the bakery to get some cheap bread for our 'celebration' dinner – the baker always discounts his merchandise on Reaping Day. Mom turns to see the boys at the table with the squirrel meat in hand and loses the carefree smile she had had a second before, which is replaced by a look of surprise.

"Boys, that's for dinner tonight!" She rushes to the table and swats their hands away from the meat. They scuttle to their room and she looks helplessly at me. "They're only half cooked anyway; they'll be ready by tonight." And then, as if she could read my mind, she adds, "I bought them for dirt cheap from Maxen Hawthorne. He was practically giving them away because of all the extra Peacekeepers snooping around."

"Oh, I see," I say, things making sense again. Maxen is a boy one year older than me who lives a couple houses down the street. Sometimes I see him early in the morning heading for the fence of our district that divides us from the wilderness. We sometimes buy his meat, along with a lot of the people in the Seam, for he's a trapper extraordinaire and usually has an overabundance of animals and wild berries to be sold.

My mother then looks over my outfit and smiles, "You look lovely." Her eyes cloud up a little, and she brushes them with the back of her hand before saying, "You'll do fine today, I promise." I give her a hug because I know she needs comforting. I need some comfort as well, for my name is in the Reaping bowl far more than I would care to think about. "We'd better head down into town," she releases me after a minute, "Wouldn't want to be late, after all!"

. . . . .

The crowds in the square are like a claustrophobe's worst nightmare, for they press in on all sides and swarm around, looking for friends or family to find confidence with them. I've already found a spot in the section reserved for seventeens with my friend Harriet, whose olive skin is already starting to become moist with sweat from anxiousness. The moving around of the crowd slows as everyone files into their correct spots and the mayor toddles to the stage. The microphone has to be lowered because he's one of the shortest men in the district, but when that is completed the rest of the Ceremony moves by at a snail's pace. The opening speech, like always, is long and boring, with little to highlight it from other years'. Then the new escort, Rocco Alvarez, a man who's had his entire body dyed navy blue, including his hair and his entire wardrobe, introduces himself in another long and boring speech. When he's finally ready to pick the tributes, I'm half asleep and Harriet has to shake one of my shoulders to rouse me.

Rocco draws out the plucking of the slip and the walking back to the microphone, so it seems like ages before he's back facing us all. I'm standing on my tiptoes with bated breath. These stupid escorts have to make a show of everything. My skin starts to itch around the neckline of the dress again and I have to clench my fists to keep from scratching my skin until it's red. I just want him to get this over with and stop the anxiety that's welling inside me.

With the slightest movements of his wrists, he unfolds the paper and a smile creeps on to his sapphire face. I have less than a second after that to pray that it's not me before he cheers "Adira Carlson, come on down, honey! You're our new tribute!"

There. Right then. That's when my world starts to crumble before my very eyes.

My heart tries to convince itself that it can't be me, but my brain knows that it very well is. Tesserae have been piling up and my names have been growing in quantity in that damned bowl. Thirty-six times it's in there, but it only takes one to seal a fate. Lungs working overtime, I step into the aisle between the males and females. Every single death from every Hunger Games I've ever watched plays through my mind as I approach the blue man. These endings seem ten times worse than when I initially watched them now that they could actually happen to me. I could be beheaded or impaled or mauled. Electrocuted or drowned. Frozen or burned. I could end up like the boy from our district last year, a kid older and stronger than me, who survived an avalanche of rock only to become trapped within and starve to death in darkness. Or the girl, only twelve years old, her fingers and toes chopped off one by one by a Career and then left to bleed out in the grass at the Cornucopia's mouth.

The Games are always painful in every way possible, and pain has never been something to look forward to. "Oh, God, help me now, please. I don't want to die." I whisper so quietly that it's not even audible to me. No one will hear my pleas now, but I know that when the time comes for me to die, all of Panem will hear, for my death will be broadcast for the world to see. Every single person in the country being forced to watch my murder, some actually enjoying it. It's sick.

Rocco stands at the top of the steps with his arms open wide, his toothy grin like a white island in an indigo ocean. I'm disgusted by these Capitol people and how they treat death like a fun pastime. How they treat me like their favorite character in a movie. This isn't just acting on stage or a fun little game of pretend. This is real. This is my life they're throwing away.

Of course, no one volunteers. No one has volunteered in District Twelve for years upon years, and no one feels the need to today. And I don't blame them.

Rocco stands there at the mic in the awkward silence that follows. I don't think he understands that it's pointless to hope for a volunteer, and he slumps over to the boys' bowl, probably wishing there was more drama going on.

He takes even longer to grab the name for the boy, and it seems like ages before he's back at the mic. "Our male representative is," Rocco pauses for 'dramatic effect,' "Brett Asali! Come on up to the stage, Brett!" There's a child-like shriek from near Jerald and Vitch and I see two boys in that section comforting each other and crying. For a second I think one of them must be Brett, but then a different boy emerges from somewhere amongst the fifteens. He's definitely a merchant kid, because nobody in the Seam has hair so red or eyes so green. I'm not sure if he's trembling or if it's just me. Probably both. Slowly but surely he makes his way to the stage and stands next to me, breathing deeply and looking out over the crowd at a boy in the back, who crosses his arms and smiles ever so slightly. I instantly hate the kid in the back, because how anyone could possibly be happy at someone being selected to die escapes me.

Rocco again is disappointed by the nonexistent volunteers, and instructs us to shake hands to conclude the ceremony. I turn to the boy next to me, whose whole body is quivering, and in his emerald green eyes I see the fear I feel reflected back at me. We're both going to die, and now there's nothing we can do about it. Nothing but to go out fighting.

Suddenly I feel as if I've been empowered with some bravery that I never knew I had. So instead of the weak, limp handshake that I thought I would give, my arm is strong and sturdy when I shake Brett's hand. I won't let anyone or anything take my life and throw it away as if it were nothing without showing them that what they're destroying is a brave, strong girl who could've done something for the world more than supplying ten minutes of entertainment for spoiled Capitol brats. Well, I'll show them. I'll show them all.

And with that, I walk off the stage with some strange new hope of survival.

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**A/N - I can't even begin to describe how slowly I wrote these Reapings, but at last they're over! Yeah! I have the next four or five chapters mostly written up already and they'll be up soon. So yeah. Review and I'll rush those out ASAP. Thanks all!**


	14. Train Rides 1: Confidence and Fear

**F1, Gabrielle Twain**

I'm finally getting to be a part of what I've always only seen on TV. As I shake hands with Silk on the stage, I wish him good luck, but he doesn't respond. Jerk. So much for a good first impression on his part. Oh well.

We are then taken to separate rooms for visiting time. My parents come in first, congratulating and wishing me luck. I talk to them about everything that's on my mind, like I usually do. The conversation basically consists of how excited I am to be in the Capitol, what the food will be like, what everyone will look like, how I'll get everyone to sponsor me, if anyone will sponsor me at all, what I'll do in training, how fun it'll be in the arena. They don't say much back, but nod enthusiastically and smile, occasionally adding in something I forgot. The allotted five minutes for them to visit seems more like five seconds, and they're escorted out by a burly Peacekeeper with a beard.

Emmett comes in next with our little daughter Joy toddling behind. My husband, oh how I love him. We've been best of friends for longer than I can remember; I don't even recall when we met, but he's always been at my side. I remember when we started dating, though, maybe five years ago. He wasn't my first lover, and I'm sure he won't be my last, for I've heard what happens to Victors and I plan on becoming one. But through thick and thin, he's been there for me, and he doesn't disappoint now.

I run to hug him, smiling widely. "I've made it! I'm a tribute!" He lifts me up and twirls me around his body, but doesn't look as excited as I thought he would. Not even happy. He then strokes my hair slowly in silence. "What's wrong?" I ask.

Emmett sighs and looks up. "I don't know how I feel about you leaving," his voice is smooth and practiced, as though he has been dreading this for a while. "What about Joy?" he whispers.

"Our little girl will get to see what a true fighter looks like," I try to soothe him, stroking his face. "Where is my Joy, anyway?" Our daughter, almost two years old, sits on the floor at Emmett's feet, not yet understanding what is happening. She looks up and smiles at me, innocent and pure, and I then understand why my husband is concerned. He doesn't want Joy to see me in association with anything so violent as the Games. "Don't worry," I say to Emmett, "I'll come back." I kiss him and hug my child, and we then crowd onto the plush red velvet sofa and chat of what our life will be like when we live in District One's Victors Village where we can have Avoxes serve our every whim and feasts of gourmet Capitol delicacies at any time of day or night. I certainly haven't had a rough life, I'm actually quite spoiled, but I'd feel so much more pampered if I had those things. It's whispered around town that Victors actually get to travel freely around the Districts and Capitol, although why you'd want to go to any district above Eight I don't understand.

The bearded man at the door pokes his bristled face in once more, and I'm again left with the feeling that time is slipping by too fast. Emmett kisses me one more time long and hard and then I kiss Joy on the forehead and watch them slowly walk out, waving at me when they pass through the door.

After that I have no visitors, and soon I am shuffled onto the high-speed train, which won't take me too far away from the place that I had grown up in. District One is very close to the Capitol.

For a while I just wander aimlessly through the passageways in the train cars admiring the interior design. Then Chanel Yearling calls me to the dining car, where Silk and two previous victors that both have ink black hair sit around a table, all guffawing at something one of them said. I take one of two empty seats, sitting next to the male victor, Ellington Mayer, about thirty with a close-shaven beard. They don't notice me for a second, and then awkwardly smile my way when they do. I really should have been in here chatting them up to get on their good side instead of whatever it was I was doing. But before I can start up a conversation, Chanel turns on a television screen in the corner and a recap of the Reapings pops on. District One is first and I see myself slipping past the slow-pokes on their way to the stage. I glow with pride a little, because it exemplified just how quick I am. Silk's entry is a little underwhelming: him walking to the stage, barking at the escort, smiling stupidly when he gets to stay.

My soon-to-be fellow Careers look like they all can handle themselves, but I'm sure I can easily pick them off when the time comes. There are some strong-looking stand-outs amongst the other districts; the boy from five is slightly muscular, and the girl from Six actually scares me a little, although I don't know why. Then there's actually a volunteer from Seven, which takes me off guard; she doesn't seem like that much of a threat, though. The girl in Eight looks intelligent, which could be just as much of an asset in the Arena as an able body. And the boy in Nine looks very athletic. But other than those, nobody stands out to me. All in all, it'll be pretty easy for me to win this thing. Silk must think the same thing, for he smirks and raises his eyebrows, "Easy bunch. I don't see any that will cause problems. I've got this thing in the bag."

Ellington rolls his eyes and glances my way. I catch his eye and give him a look of understanding. We both know that to allow yourself to be arrogant is to allow yourself weakness. I know that none of these kids should be underestimated or even judged before training. Looks aren't everything, Emmett always says, an angelic face can hide a devilish personality, and vice versa. Now more than ever is this important. Because it could mean the difference between me seeing my daughter again or winding up with a knife in my back.

* * *

**M2, McKinley Laine**

Willis is so happy for me. She runs into the visiting room, her silvery hair flying, "Mackey! You did it!" Her skinny arms wrap around my neck, and mine around hers. "You did it, Mackey! You're going to be famous!" I am, aren't I? I am going to the Hunger Games! To fight on national television. To kill the unworthy in fantastically gruesome ways. To bring glory to my family name. My family of failures.

"I'll miss you while I'm gone," I hold her in my arms, running my fingers through the long, smooth strands of her hair, smiling as I think of what my father might say if he were around. If he were still alive, he might congratulate me. Wish me luck. Say that I make him proud. And I should make him proud. It's not like anybody else in our family does.

She giggles and walks her fingers up my arm, "You don't find anyone else in the Capitol, kay?"

"Oh, you know I couldn't in a million years find anyone like you," I say, my forehead on hers, and she smiles. We bring our lips together and kiss for a while.

Willis pulls away first and slips a silver ring off her thin finger and onto mine. I look down at it, a plain silver band, the one she always wears. Then she stands on her tip-toes, for I am much taller than her, and whispers in my ear slowly, "Keep this with you, and wash it in the blood of those you kill." I look back into her eyes, her ice blue eyes, and see a blood lust like that of a serial killer in them. And I know that that blood lust is in my brown eyes as well. That longing to cause the pain of others, to hear their cries and screams for mercy, to feel their blood warm on my hands. That's what I want.

My lips curl into a smile at her proposal, "Oh, I will. It'll be forever red."

"Good," she whispers. Then she kisses me again, this time only a short brush of the lips, and whispers, "I'll see you real soon," before leaving before her time was up.

My family doesn't visit, not that I wanted them to. It's only my pathetic excuse for a brother and my weak, timid mother, who doesn't talk to me anyway. I have to wait for fifteen minutes for my district partner's visitors to get the fuck out, and when it's finally time to board the train I start a search for my mentor. I need to get on their good side, to have an advantage over Shay. I've seen Games where the last two standing were from the same District, and the one that the mentor liked better got the life-saving sponsor gifts, while the other got the cold shoulder. I've seen Shay in action at the local training center, and I'll definitely need as much of an advantage over her as I can get.

I find a young girl with curled blonde hair in one of the cars, lying on a sofa. She doesn't look much older than me, maybe eighteen. Emory Taylors. I wonder if she's mentoring Shay or I. Hopefully latter. Emory was almost brutal in last year's Games, taking out her fellow Careers as they slept, making their deaths very bloody. She'd be a wonderful mentor for me. But now, for some reason, she looks depressed and vulnerable. "Hello," I say quietly.

She looks up, "You're Mackey, right?" I nod. "You must be looking for Antwonne." Of course. Emory's _not_ my mentor. I get some obscure old Victor that I've never heard of. I'm about to ask where he is when she slumps back down as if I am wasting her time, "He's sleeping, so you probably won't see him for a while." Great. Just great. Not only have I never heard of this man in my life, but he's so old that he has to take naps. Fantastic.

I travel to my personal compartment, passing Shay on the way. She looks stressed and is muttering something about 'Gretta', but I give no attention to her and lock myself away in my own space. There is plenty for me to do, but nothing is inviting. Try on clothes? I've never been one to care much about appearance. Sleep? No, I'm much too awake right now for a full-on slumber. Besides, there isn't much time before we'll be in the Capitol, because Two isn't very distant at all. So I just look out the window, twisting the ring Willis gave me. Everything outside passes by in a blur, the train's floating along so fast. I begin to grow drowsy and my eyelids sink lower and lower until finally they're closed and I've drifted into a light sleep. It isn't until the train comes to a complete stop that there's a banging on my door and I'm jolted awake. It seems that we've reached the Capitol.

* * *

**M3, Oliver Spree**

No, no, no, no, no! This can't be happening!

But it is. The Peacekeepers drag me to the stage and I panic, frantically trying to get away. I can't go to the Hunger Games. I'll die! I don't want to die. I want to live!

There's no use. I'm in no shape to fight off a group of Peacekeepers. They easily handle the situation and plant me on the stage, not straying more than a few feet away in case I try for another escape attempt. But there is no chance. There's no way for me to get away. I'm stuck as a tribute. I'm stuck in the Hunger Games. I'm just stuck.

The fragile-looking girl tribute, Vienna, crushes my hand in hers, and she looks furious. I think she's trying to intimidate me somehow. Well, two can play at that game. Even though my hand really hurts, I try to give her a menacing glare. "District Three!" The escort says with a smile, "Your tributes for the Forty-Seventh Hunger Games!" We're rushed out of sight and into a small room for visiting. I sit there, scared and shivering.

I don't really expect anyone to visit me, but it turns out I do have a few loyal friends after all. Alex runs in first, and Troy and Dylan closely follow her. The three give me a group hug, crying. We all know that I won't make it back. There's no way. I'll be lucky if I don't die on the first day. Heck, I'll be lucky if I don't die first overall. "Don't worry," Dylan tries to comfort me, but he isn't taking his own advice and the worry is just etched on his face. Anyway, why wouldn't I worry? I'll worry until my last second of life. It's what I do. I'm a paranoid little kid who's about to be thrown into an Arena of blood-thirsty teens who'll hunt me down and make my death as 'entertaining' as possible for the audience of Capitol fools. What's not to worry about?

"You need to try really hard, okay?" Troy runs his fingers through his short hair, trying to come up with better ideas. I'm the one who usually comes up with the crazy ideas, being the brains of this outfit, but I just look down at the ground, not wanting to say anything more.

"We'll hold down the fort here," Alex pulls Dylan and Troy to her side. They all nod in agreement, and I can't help but give them a half-hearted smile. Yeah, I'm going to die. Sure, I won't have any allies and therefore no chance. But I do have friends at home who will be cheering me on from start to finish, even if that finish is my death.

We don't really say much after that, but sit in silence looking at each other with sad eyes. When they're forced to go, I can't help but feel that a part of me is being ripped out and taken away.

Next my older sister, Sammie, opens the door slowly and looks in. "Oh, Oliver," she tears up. I hug her. My parents are nowhere to be found. She sees me looking for them and says, "They didn't want you to get emotional and try to run again." A little anger at them bubbles inside of me. That's not the reason. I know it's not. They're just too embarrassed to come and see their son. Their son, who is about to be killed on television. I bet they didn't even want Sammie to come see me.

Sam gives me my hoodie, the black and white striped one that my mother wouldn't let me wear to the ceremony. I put it on, and even though it is worn thin, having it makes me stop shivering. It's almost as if nothing has changed, that I am still the same kid I was yesterday, and the day before. I think I'll take this as my token to the place where I'll die. Some familiarity in my last moments.

I board the train after she leaves and find somewhere to sulk. I eventually settle in the lounge car, curled in a ball on the couch. The escort, Demi, brings Vienna into the room and turns on the screen for the recaps. I really don't want to watch, but Demi insists that we'll stand a better chance if we know our competition.

There are plenty kids that look strong and cunning and manipulative. Some cry, but most are tough-looking and emotionless. When I see myself, kicking and screaming, I put my head in my hands. Nobody is going to sponsor _that_. I've just ruined any chance of getting the life-saving supplies needed in the Arena to win. No wonder Vienna hates me. I make our district look weak. And I'm ashamed.

The train becomes a bitter place. A place of transition between protection and danger. Nobody speaks; nobody moves. We all just sit around, knowing that this is going to be the end. I can tell that they all resent me; that I've ruined not only my chance at survival, but Vienna's as well. And this brings me only grief.

When the tall Capitol buildings finally come into view, I sit up and face the window. I didn't show any courage at the Reapings, so I'm now determined to make up for it from now on. And when the time comes, I'll show Panem that Oliver Spree can make it.

* * *

**F4, Aimee Jackson**

"You know, my name means 'very handsome' in Greek," Calix smiles with all his blindingly white teeth. He just _won't stop talking_. Romeo, Calix, and I are in the 'lounge' compartment, which is decked out with pink sofas around a low coffee table filled with snacks. August disappeared before visiting time and I haven't seen him since. We've been on the train for hours, and so far, Calix has gone through at least five hundred different topics. I've tuned him out for most of it, but it's never-ending. From outfits to rumors to scandals. He hasn't yet passed into the painful subject of the Games, but I'm guessing that he's not far from it. Capitol people can only go so far in a conversation without bringing it up, right?

"My friend Agro's name means 'battle', and let me tell you, that man sure loves to watch-"

"Shut up!" I say at last, "Just stop talking!" Romeo stifles a laugh, but Calix looks sincerely offended. His spray-tanned features droop in a frown and his lavender eyes register shock that I had spoken back. Imagine that! Someone not wanting to hear about your worthless life, you twit! He has no comeback though, so I just get up and leave. An Avox directs me to my personal compartment, which I apparently could have been in this whole time. That would have saved a couple hours of my life from pointless ramblings. Oh well, at least I got to show the boys not to mess with me.

In the room there's a large bed in the center and two dressers off to the side, one filled with clothes like those that are popular in District Four and the other with Capitol fashions. I lay out an outfit for tomorrow and take my hair out of the ponytail it's been in all day. It falls in curls around my shoulders and I pull it to one side, looking in the mirror. Will anyone sponsor me? The question is one I need answers to, considering that now that I'm in the Hunger Games I'm at my sponsors' mercy. I turn away from the mirror, trying to forget about that for now.

The silk sheets on the bed slide easily over me as I lie down, thinking of the past day's events. I was selected for the Hunger Games, and nobody volunteered. Nobody. Last time I checked, Four was a Career district. So now why, when I am picked, is there not one soul willing to take my place? We had watched the reaping recaps, and I saw plenty of girls in One and Two fighting to get to the stage. I guess August and his graphic words scared everyone away. I grit my teeth. Why him? There are plenty of other Victors who would be willing to mentor, and yet we're stuck with the loon. Bryn Nichols, for example, would have been suitable. Or maybe Marilla Cumbers. Heck, I'd even be okay with having that crazy woman Mags as my mentor. Someone who could actually strategize with us without falling to pieces. Someone who could bring me home.

Lila thinks I'll make it home. I twist the bracelet on my arm; the one she gave me when we were kids. She came to visit right before I left, after the Hamiltons and Jeremy. I saw all of my friends crying during the ceremony, but not Lila. She showed me why she's my best friend. Best friends need to stay strong, no matter what. She has faith that I'll make it back, therefore giving me a little faith in myself.

Jeremy came too, but we didn't talk much. He was pretty emotional. I think it might be hard for him, if he loses me. My brother is the only thing left of my family, and I of his. Mom and Dad died when we were little, and the Hamiltons took us in. They'd comfort him, but it still wouldn't be the same as actually having family around.

These thoughts drift me off to sleep, sending me into dreams in which all my friends and family being attacked by Mutt vines. They scream and call for me, but ropes are coiled around my body and I cannot move. I can only helplessly watch as the creeping plants disappear into their skin and their frail bodies slowly stop squirming. Then the cords that bind me turn into green snakes with no heads that tighten until I black out.

* * *

**A/N - It's about midnight right now, but I stayed up and edited this to make it longer for y'all. So what do you think, how do you like these newly-introduced tributes? Any thoughts?**


	15. Train Rides 2: Alone, Together

**F5, Breya McAndre**

I cry until my eyes can't supply any more tears. Then I just mope around the train, trying to avoid all the people who seem to want me to fight for my life. Which is everybody.

I've never been one to enjoy the company of others. All my life, I've pretty much been alone, and I guess that's what it'll be like from now until I die. I'll be alone.

The train takes me away from home, and from everything I've ever known. Right now, District Four is just a blur on the other side of the glass. Soon we'll pass through Three, and then the Capitol. But after that, I don't want to even think of where I'll be going. It's always somewhere horrid, like a frozen tundra or a parched desert. Extremes in climate and danger are the norm for Arenas; I just hope that this year they try a forest again. Those usually have fearsome mutts, but at least they've got lots of places to hide. I like hiding; it's one of the few things I'm particularly good at.

Sorrell, the escort, calls me to eat, but I've lost all appetite. Our escort seems to always be eating anyway, munching on biscuits in the car and sneaking marshmallows out of his pocket during the ceremony. It seems that all the food in the world couldn't satisfy Sorrell, the bottomless pit. I guess the same could be said about me; not even the exotic Capitol foods can satisfy my hunger, for I hunger for home. And now it'll just be a distant memory, for I'll never see my home again. Another round of tears soaks my face, and I feel the need to hide again. I find refuge behind a peach-colored couch, curling into a ball and closing my reddened eyes.

Thoughts of Jai creep into my mind. He wouldn't be crying, I'd bet. Maybe if he was here, he'd know how to handle the situation. Jai always knew how to make me feel better, that's for sure. But I wouldn't wish him here for any reason. He stands less of a chance in the Games than I do.

It seems like so long ago, when I first met Jai, but really it's only been a few years. I saw him all the time before I actually met him, happy and carefree. But like always, the school bullies just love to rip happiness apart. Soon the smiling boy I once saw was bloodied and bruised, crying in the corner every day. No one ever stopped to help. One day, I'd had enough of seeing misery at that corner and came up to him. He was wary at first, but when I offered to clean his cuts, he opened up quickly. I've always been good with taking care of wounds; my mother works as a caretaker in District Five's only hospital. I fixed him up, physically and a little mentally as well. We've been best friends ever since. Truthfully, he is my only friend. But I wouldn't want to have it any other way.

Thinking of Jai makes me feel even worse than before, because I know he'll be anxiously watching me every time I come onto the screen, praying that I'll make it back, screaming if I get in trouble or cheering if I do something right. I feel horrible because in the end I'll probably disappoint him.

"Jakob!" Sorrell comes waddling through the room I'm in; interrupting my sadness and making me jump out of my skin. "Breya! Come watch the recaps with me!" I uncurl myself and stand up, startling the large escort. His cheeks get as red as his jumpsuit. "Come, darling. I want to see this," he trills. I follow him to a different train car and settle myself down on a comfy blue couch. Jakob and our two mentors this year, Valo and Fern, each get situated in various places: Fern next to me on the couch, Valo standing behind everyone, my partner on the floor. Valo switches on the screen and I see that I wasn't the only one that cried. Several others let their emotions roll down their cheeks, too. It's really hard not to, when you're faced with something like this.

Out of all the other tributes, I don't think I'll have help from any of them. Even my district partner, who seems like a nice kid, is already talking to Valo about allying with the girl from Twelve. I'm going to be alone in this. But I don't think I want anyone's help, anyway. Anyone I get close to will just be another person to leave behind when I die. I don't want that; I have enough people to disappoint already.

We switch off the screen after the recaps loop for the third time. I'm left with a feeling that I can't describe. Maybe dread. After watching thirteen years' worth of Hunger Games in my lifetime, I've seen plenty of groups of tributes. And I know enough to see that I will not come out on top of this; there are just too many other tough tributes this year. I sense the others know it, too, because when the Capitol buildings come into view, we all stay silent. Even when the train comes to a stop at the station, nobody speaks. I stand quietly, as do the others. Outside this train, there are bloodthirsty people who will enjoy watching me suffer. They'll dress me up, cheer me on, and then laugh when I die. I don't know if my eyes can produce any more tears, but if they could I might just start crying right now. This is terrifying, being handed over to the villains, but it's the rules. It's all part of the game.

The doors of the train slide open, breaking the boundary between me and my killers.

* * *

**M6, Darrel Bless**

Stay strong, stay strong.

The Ryder girl that got picked before me played it off well, the whole 'look ferocious' thing, and I'm trying to do the same thing. I keep a smile on my face and walk up as if I couldn't care less, but it's hard because my body is starting to shake as my mind produces image after image of every horrible thing that has happened to the tributes from our district over the years. When I reach the stage, the new escort Delphine smiles at me like I'm just going to have '_so_ much fun,' and that's when I snap. How can she think we're enjoying this? Does she think I want to die? My smile disappears immediately, and so does hers. No one is having fun anymore. The Capitol has made sure of that. Delphine's comment when she left for her little Capitol trailer only confirmed my dislike of her even more.

Marina and my parents came in for visiting time and enveloped me in a large hug, whispering words of encouragement in my ears while trying not to cry. I held onto my sister for ages. She's my anchor, always urging me to do the right thing. But in this situation, the Games, no matter what I do, it won't be the right thing. Killing others to get home, or leaving my family forever. Neither is a favorable choice. Neither will get me out of this unscathed.

The Peacekeepers had to pry my family off of me when their time was up. I could still hear them screaming for me through the thick wooden doors when a woman came to take me to the train station. On the ride there in the car, I sat in between Delphine and Ryder. The tension was so thick that I thought I might choke on it. It was possibly the worst ten minutes of my life. But I doubt it will be the worst for much longer; I am going into the Arena after all.

So now I'm on the train. I've always loved trains; my father works on one for his job and brings me along sometimes when he's in a good mood. I admire him; he's such a hard worker. But sometimes, he can be lonesome and irritable. I guess I can be grouchy, too, but not usually. I just try to be pleasant all the time – I've found that you make more friends that way.

Delphine grudgingly guides Ryder and I to a dining cart, which has an Avox servant standing on either side of both doors. In the middle of the room is a finely polished table set for five people. "We'll be eating Lunch soon," Delphine gestures for us to sit. When we are comfortable, she turns and starts to leave. "I hope you haven't already stuffed yourselves back home," she snickers before sliding the door shut behind her. Ryder glares in the direction that she went, seething.

"I hate her," she says quickly. Ryder stands and goes to look around the room. There are lots of cabinets and dressers adorned with pictures of landscapes and such. One large frame catches my eye: an overhead view of District Six, and I spend a while trying to spot where I live in it, but it must be an old copy because some of the buildings in it burned down long ago or have been remodeled. I can't find my house, so I turn my attention to the collection of glasses and bottles on a long shelf that circles the whole ceiling. They look very intricate and fragile, as if the slightest bump could shatter them all. But after a couple of minutes, that bores me as well, and I sit in silence staring at the empty plate in front of me. Everything here is supposed make us feel comfortable and relaxed. Too bad, I don't feel comfortable at all.

I watch Ryder walk around for a while, but stay seated. Delphine comes back in, trailed by two more people I recognize as District celebrities. Oriel Harper and Pearce Hyland are the two victor-mentors this year. Oriel is younger, about twenty-five, with long blond waves of hair and pale green eyes. Pearce, in his late thirties, looks Capitolesque with a long black beard curled and sticking out from his face in various directions. Both look a little disturbed to be going back to the Capitol, although they must have each done it several times. They take three of the four empty seats, Pearce on my right and Oriel on my left with Delphine next to her. It's really quiet, and all the Avoxes bar the smallest leave to get food for us. Ryder is still standing, looking around.

"We should watch the recaps," Pearce suggests in the seat next to me. "They should be on now." The smallest Avox brings him the remote. Ryder turns around, and scowls as she sees who she has to sit by. Then she blatantly picks up the chair next to Delphine and moves it to sit next to Pearce and I. Oriel tries to hold back a laugh and Delphine just pouts. Really, if no one likes this escort, why is she still here?

The television flickers to life and shows the last words of an interview with the Head Gamemaker before starting the Reapings. I see One, with two eighteen year olds; they've most likely been trained since birth. Two is no surprise with two more volunteers, the girl being quite young. Three's male freaks out and has a fit trying to escape in vain. Four, though, which is usually a Career district, has only one volunteer this year, a young boy who doesn't look trained at all; even so, both the tributes still look tough to beat. Five produces two young children, who both look scared as hell. Then we come on, and I see that I actually looked tough and emotionless. That is, until Delphine broke my concentration, when I started to look pissed off. But I still looked strong, and that's what counts. After that, I don't really pay attention. I think there was a volunteer from Seven, but other than that, the Reapings went the same as always for the lower districts. Everyone seems normal, like they're not different at all. They're all just regular people. _We're_ all just regular people. The only thing that sets us apart from everyday people is what we are going to have to do.

* * *

**M7, Canyon Lorensen**

I don't know what's going on around me, I can only process that I've been called up. Well, it's not too much of a surprise; I had so many entries this year after all. Odds were high that I would be picked. And apparently the odds aren't in my favor.

As I step forward, I fix a determined look upon my face, because that seems the most sensible thing to do. Don't give in to fear, show that you aren't going to let it run your life. My fear is that the people I love won't be able to get along without me after I leave. I do after all bring in a fair amount of money and the tesserae. I guess they were my downfall, the tesserae. Food for a year in exchange for more chance of death? Sounds like an even trade, right?

Just when I think I can pull off the whole 'brave' look, I see a head of wavy red locks coming at me. Abbie. She throws her arms around me and I feel her tears soaking through my red-plaid shirt. Immediately two Peacekeepers grab each of her arms and start to drag her away. _No_, I think. _I need her and she needs me. I need to stay_. But she's taken from my grasp and someone shoves me forward, to my death. I keep up the facade, but it's so much harder now.

When the time comes, no one steps forward to save me. My district partner is a volunteer; she saved that little twelve-year-old. I'm wondering why she did it. She probably knew her somehow; the people who volunteer in District Seven do it for someone they're close to. But that only happens rarely anyway.

We shake hands and the rest of my time on the stage passes in a rush. I'm practically pushed off the stage at the end and through doors that slam behind me. After the initial shock of being locked in, I begin to look around me. The sofa is of a dark blue satin fabric and I sink into it about five inches when I sit down.

The first to visit me is Connor, my thirteen year old brother. It makes me sad to think that he'll have to take the tesserae next year. Wait, why am I thinking like that? I need to keep my eye on the prize and stay focused. If I come home, he won't need tesserae, and he won't have to worry ever again. We all won't have to worry any more. Life free from worry, that's what the Hunger Games could bring. But it brings other things as well: nightmares, hauntings, stress. There are pros and cons to playing the Game, but with winning comes mostly the good stuff. So that's what everyone wants to do. They want to win.

Connor's tear-filled goodbye leaves me feeling blue. He can be annoying, but has always looked up to me, so I feel the need to give him something to look up to. I don't shed a single tear; I have to be strong. My parents leave the same way as my brother – crying their eyes out. It gets harder and harder to keep myself calm with every visitor. There's no way I'm going to make it back, I know that, but I at least need to try. And when everyone is acting like this is the last time they'll ever see me, I lose the small confidence that I have.

When Abbie comes in, I feel devastated. She's been crying – her puffy red eyes give that away. We've been friends for forever, and it pains me to see her like this. She and I work random jobs together around town for the cash we need. We split the money evenly because both our families are in the same situation as far as wealth goes. Abbie has harbored a crush on me for a long time, although she's too shy to ever admit it. "Oh, Hutch," she cries, hugging me.

"Promise me you'll come back," Abbie says, her sad eyes searching my face. But I stay silent. I don't want to make a promise I can't keep. I don't want to let her down. "Promise?" she repeats, more tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

"Promise," I say. I might as well give her what she wants. She gives me a half-hearted smile and an unexpected kiss on the cheek and leaves before the time runs out, as if she can't stand to see me any longer. I stand a few more moments alone before a Peacekeeper comes and ushers me to the car that will take me to the train station. It doesn't feel like very long before we're at the station, being sent off by a dismal crowd. I guess this is the last time I'll ever see this place, my home. It doesn't seem like home though, anymore, but something more depressing. Chynna stands next to me, looking out over the people with a frightened look about her. A question has been itching in my mind for a while now that I want to ask her. "Why'd you volunteer?" I blurt out.

She turns to me with a face devoid of expression. "I had nothing to lose," she says quietly before boarding the train. That's a strange answer, very vague. I thought it would be more along the lines of 'I was saving a friend' or 'I really want to spill some blood.' But now that I think about it, she doesn't seem like the type who would say the latter. I have a feeling there's more to the story than just that, because it certainly doesn't seem like a reason for one to just throw their life away over.

The train feels like a completely different place. It's not welcoming like District Seven is, but it's still not as hostile as I'm sure the Capitol will feel like. It's like a mixture between the two. A place of transition.

Jelena, the escort, informs us that we won't be arriving in the Capitol until tomorrow, and considering Seven is one of the farthest districts from the Capitol, that doesn't surprise me. I guess I have time to relax now before I'm thrown out into the world to fight. And I don't care what happens from now on, but in the end, I'm not going to break my promise to Abbie.

* * *

**F8, Lace Marion**

We are herded onto the train like animals into a kennel. Inside is a sampling of what the Capitol must be like. Extravagantly designed walls; intricately carved furniture; silent servants, Avoxes; this place has it all. I'm surprised they spend this much on us, considering it's pretty likely this won't be a round-trip.

Eight, even though it's one of the upper districts, is pretty close to the Capitol. The train only has to pass through One, Two, and Three to get there. So I guess it won't be long before I have to start up my unemotional mask again. But for now I can let it all out.

I go straight to my personal room and flop down face-first on the bed. And I cry. I cry about all the things that I couldn't before because I was afraid. I cry because it's all so unfair, that I didn't do anything to deserve this. I cry because my parents will lose their only child and Flannel and Cross will lose their lifelong friend. Three words sum up my reasons: I will die. A girl like me – a child – doesn't stand a chance. I've seen these things before. I've seen people from my District get torn to pieces both emotionally and physically. None of them come back. Their bodies now either lie in ashes in an Arena far away or in the tribute burial grounds back at home. And soon I will join them there.

I'm still shaking with sobs when I hear Artell softly knock on my door. "What?" I sniff, quickly wiping tears off my cheeks.

His answer is muffled through the wooden door, "Merren wants you to come out and watch the recaps with us." That's right. I should go see who all is going to die with me. I first wash my face, and when all traces of my meltdown are gone, I stumble through the hall to the dining compartment. Once there, I see a table with four dark wooden seats, two on each side, and a TV fixed on the wall in the corner. Merren and Artell sit on the side farthest from the screen, and Jenni sits on the other, beckoning for me to take the place next to her. I don't really want to, but I sit and turn my chair to face the television, which is showing an interview with the Head Gamemaker this year.

The Gamemaker on screen is talking to Caesar Flickerman, the man who interviews the tributes now that Tarquin Dynamis has retired. He was pretty old, but this new Caesar guy is young and fresh, perfect for Capitol crowds. Caesar debuted last year, and the major response was positive, so he'll probably be here to stay for a long time. The man next to him, The Head Gamemaker, has very tan skin and dark black hair with white streaks, but other than that, looks completely normal. "Ooh, Dominic Perez is directing this year," Jenni squeals. "It's going to be a good and bloody one, I can tell." I snap my head towards her. I can see that my district partner is giving her a death stare, too. How dare she say that, when both Artell and I are sitting right next to her! Does she even care about what awaits us, other than a 'good, bloody show!'? No, she doesn't. She just continues listening intently to the interview, oblivious. I start to wonder if she has any ability at all to control what comes out of her mouth when the interviewer starts in on the Reapings today.

First are all the Career tributes and they seem the same as every year: cruel and merciless. But now there is a level of terror that I feel from watching them volunteer that I've never felt before. I guess it's because one of them could be my killer. Three makes Caesar burst out laughing as the boy makes a break for it, kicking and screaming. I instantly feel sorry for the kid, for he's now labeled himself as a Bloodbath. Then Four supplies some more fearsome Careers again, and I'm just left to cower at how the odds are stacking up against me.

"Are either of you thinking about allies?" Merren's concerned voice breaks into my thoughts when District Five pops on the screen. I hadn't really thought of that, but I guess I could survive longer if I had a little help.

Artell sighs behind me. "I think I do best when I work alone," he says. Oh, okay. I don't have my district partner for support, so I'd better find someone else. Or someones. So I watch intently at every face that is brought to the stage, at every sturdy or strong body that could be my savior. There are a few candidates, but I can't be sure until Training who I should approach and who I should avoid.

Beware, tributes. I'll be keeping an eye on you.

* * *

**A/N - Thank you all for reviewing, keep it up! Tell me what you think of these kiddos in the box below!**


	16. Chariot Rides

**A/N- Sorry for the long wait, but I had several things pop up that needed my full attention. Also, I've decided to come to the Chariot Rides, since I already had it put together, and maybe I'll come back to the third Train Ride later. I don't know. Probably not. Anyway, this one's nice and long and we can finally head on to bigger and better things!**

* * *

**F4, Aimee Jackson**

We were taken directly from the train to the Remake Center, or in other words, from Purgatory to Hell.

I've spent the last few hours having every last hair ripped from its follicle and every speck of dirt dug from my nails and every pore purged of oil or grime.

It's torture.

My three "caretakers," as they've dubbed themselves, are called Hymen, Griffin, and Maisie, or as I like to refer to them as Things One, Two, and Three respectively. Whether it's because of the bright purple hair or green and navy polka-dot skin, or maybe even the constant twitter of their Capitol accents, I've grown to loath these three imbeciles. Several times I would have slapped them across the face if my arms weren't strapped to the metal table I lay on. At least thrice Maisie has exclaimed in an extremely squeaky manner, "You're like an albino gorilla!" I don't know what a 'gorilla' is exactly, but it must not be something pleasant, for Hymen and Griffin each time burst out laughing and had to leave until they could come back and focus on working.

The torture ends with Griffin pouring searing hot oil onto my legs and arms and rubbing it in with rough gloves while Hymen runs a jagged brush through my hair for the billionth time. That's when they deem me suitable for my stylist to see and take me to a stark clean room with everything painted navy. I'm left alone and the door is locked behind me.

There's nowhere for me to sit or lie down in the room but the floor, and since my prep team nearly blew up when I even stooped to pick my tiny robe up from the ground, I decide against resting there. I've been stripped of even that robe now and shiver slightly as the breeze from an overhead vent blows cold air on my exposed skin. The burning sensation from the hot oils and the plucking has subsided, though, and it feels better than before the process started.

For a while I stand and admire how good my skin feels, but then I give in to the pain in my legs and sit down on the floor, fiddling with a strand of my hair for a long time.

The dream I had had the night on the train pops into my mind, making me feel sick. Of course nothing like that could actually happen to my family, but it still _could_ happen to _me._

After a while I notice that it's been at least half an hour since Hymen dropped me in here and still my stylist hasn't come. Then forty minutes. Forty-five. Fifty.

The clock reads six o'clock by the time there's any knock on the door. With the chariot rides to start at eight, this leaves a maximum of an hour and a half to fully get into my costume, and from what I've heard, these kinds of things take at least twice as long to do right. This stylist, whoever they are, had better step it up if I'm to make a good impression tonight.

The door opens and a very tall woman with teal hair and small ram's horns protruding from her forehead briskly struts into the room carrying a dark bag that clinks and jingles like coins as she walks in on her black three-inch high heels. Like the other stylists I'd seen in the Remake Center, she wears all black: a black sweater and a black pencil skirt. "Sorry I'm late," my stylist breathes and she swiftly drops off the navy blue bag which contains what I presume to be my attire for later. "I had to help Zair with a few adjustments to your partner's outfit." Without another word she starts to circle me and I cross my arms over my chest; I'm really not comfortable with her staring at me while I'm naked. This is one of the few times that I've felt shy since I was picked out of the blasted bowl of death. Once she seems satisfied with the way my body looks she walks to a counter connected to the wall and begins scribbling down things on a sketchpad. I just stand awkwardly and listen to the sound of her pencil moving across the smooth paper. "I'm Tzipora by the way," her voice drifts over to me but she doesn't turn around or stop writing things down.

Even though this woman isn't showing much interest in getting to know me, I have the feeling that she may hold part of my life in her hands, so I'd better be kind to her. "Aimee Jackson," I say to her back.

"I know," she says mysteriously, and then nothing else. There's nothing else that I say to continue the conversation, not that I want to have a conversation with her anyway. I sit and start to listen to the only noise in the room again: the noise of the pencil. It's very rhythmic, pausing occasionally and starting up again. After the sound stops for a while without starting again I realize I had closed my eyes and open them to find her standing in front of me again, still holding the pencil and paper.

"What?" I say, noticing her start to smile. I don't know much about this woman, but I know that she's from the Capitol, and that's enough for me to tell that if she's smiling, something bad is going to happen.

"I think what I've designed will be perfect for you to wear," She's giddy with excitement. I don't know whether I should be giddy with her or terrified. I decide to go with giddy and do my best to reflect her smile.

"Thank goodness," my voice seems a little sarcastic to me, but she reacts as if it sounded sincere. She claps her hands and retrieves the navy bag that held the costume again. Tzipora unzips it and I only have one thing on my mind.

I should have been terrified instead.

* * *

**Head Gamemaker, Dominic Perez**

I shuffle down the crowded row of seats and find the four spots that I'd reserved previously. Front row seats are hard to get, but I have no problem with that kind of thing. Other than the president, the Head Gamemaker is the most powerful person in all of Panem. Therefore, I get what I want. No 'ifs', 'ands' or 'buts' about it.

Yasmine has brought along her best friend (for this week at least): a girl whose skin is dyed a bright shade of indigo, as is her whole family's custom. Her father is the district escort for Twelve if I'm not mistaken. The lowest district, yes, but that still boosts her family's social status somewhat. I don't bother to learn the girl's name, for soon enough I won't be seeing her anymore; my daughter's choice of friends changes almost as much as she changes her clothes. Which is extremely often.

The blue girl sits in the seat farthest right, with my daughter one seat to her left. I leave the seat next to Yasmine empty. It's supposed to be for my soon-to-be-ex-wife, if she'll even show up, which I highly doubt. I haven't seen her in what seems like ages; her job as one of the president's consultants sometimes sends her on long, 'secret' missions, which I know to be journeys to the districts, but she hasn't told me of anything about anything as of late. In all honesty, there's a high possibility that there may have been an 'accident,' which tends to happen to people of high status who disappoint President Moon. Now that I'm thinking about it, an accident might be a good thing for me: I wouldn't need to file any divorce papers.

When I get seated in the fourth seat, I start to look around. We're slightly early, but the stadium is already packed. People like to come early and socialize at events like this. It's not like anyone has anything else to do. All work is cancelled during the Games; a true celebration such as this should not be tarnished by labor.

Caesar Flickerman and Vixus Pandora are the commentators for this event. And seeing that they're the two biggest loudmouths in all of Panem, the task suits them. They sit in a special booth a few rows behind me, and I can clearly hear their excited chirping banter back and forth in the background noise. I want to grimace, but I don't - or more precisely, can't. In social status and popularity, they are my equals, though I'd hardly consider us equal. So, they being my equals, I have to treat them as such, that being proper etiquette; I have to seem to be friendly toward them and hide my reality, which is that I can barely tolerate them. Yasmine catches my gaze and rolls her eyes, a playful smirk crossing her lips. My daughter and I may not agree on many things, but we both whole-heartedly agree that my two colleagues are two of the most annoying people in the Capitol. It's outrageous that they're paid more than I when all they do is gossip and eavesdrop and tell the most ludicrous lies on camera all while dressed like circus clowns and hobos. To the rest of the Capitol they are fashion icons, while to me they appear as children dressing themselves for the first time: ignorant of style or elegance. I've never been one for the hair and skin dying or the ridiculous outfits or bodily modifications. The Capitol is a place of comfort and class, not a place for painful or gaudy 'fashion'. I'm content with my black tailored suit and a slight dusting of colored glitter (which today is red, a striking color if I may say so myself!) in my sleek black hair, which are two things that are neither gaudy nor painful.

The fashions displayed today in the parade may seem strange to those wearing them, but to everybody else it is something to be strived for. I for one think the costumes are wonderful and always well thought out in symbolizing each district in full. But I wouldn't dare wear anything like these in public on a daily basis, unlike some die-hard fashionistas I see.

I sit for a while after that, twiddling my thumbs and skimming the stack of tribute files I brought with me. It's a thick binder of information and I won't be able to go through it all tonight, but I'll help me to remember which is which tribute-wise. I never remember every one of them, but I might get a few names down by the time training starts.

I spend a little time staring around at the people around me. Even though my name is known in every household in Panem, I don't necessarily speak with many people besides my colleagues and family, and other high ranking Capitolites. I'm surprised that around me there are many people whom I have never seen at a banquet or party before, which is unusual for the front row of an expensive event such as this. Middle-class citizens usually can't afford center section seats, let alone bottom row.

Vixus's voice booms out through the stadium over the intercom and I can't stop myself from bringing my hands up to my ears. He honestly has no sense of volume, and practically shouts into the microphone when he speaks. "Welcome everyone," I hear him say, even through my fingers. "The forty-seventh annual chariot exhibition is about to start!" Yasmine and her blue-skinned friend squeal next to me, and I once again roll my eyes. Yes, the chariot rides are very exciting, but the real fun begins when the timer runs out. Then, these Capitol children will be silent, eager to take in every minute detail, but now we're all just content to meet the contenders for the first time since their rebirth at the Capitol.

Caesar exclaims, slightly more conscious of his voice than his partner, "And here they are!" I see the first district emerge from the Training Center: two snow white horses sprayed with silver glitter pulling the golden chariot behind it with ease. The chariot itself is incredible, more so than previous years, as are the two tributes within it. Silk Ballard and Gabrielle Twain, or so their names are according to my notes, stand side by side in the cart waving enthusiastically and blowing kisses for the crowd, which is going completely nuts over them. Their outfits reflect the luxury of District One well: tight, golden leotards with long silver ruffled sleeves that come to the wrists. The golden fabric is encrusted with clear jewels that sparkle and reflect in all angles the beams of the overhead lights. The girl's legs and curly red mane of hair are dusted with silver glitter not unlike that on the horses, tying the whole display together. The boy flexes his muscles and strikes a wide array of provocative poses in the tight outfit that hides nothing of his toned physique. All in all, the costumes are a little simple, but they up the sensuality factor for potential Sponsors, making them efficient in what they're designed to do: grab the audience's attention. Not that the tributes themselves couldn't have done that all on their own. Oh no, Silk has such looks as to make any girl in Panem swoon. And Gabrielle isn't too bad on the eyes either, although according to my notes she has a husband and daughter back at home. A bit of a letdown for potential bedmates, but maybe she can work a motherly family girl angle to her advantage instead.

Next comes chariot two from the giant doors at the far end of the lane. The cart is painted in a way so that it resembles marble and the horses are identical to the pair pulling the previous cart, snow white and sprinkled with glitter. McKinley and Shay, the two tributes, are very unalike in physical appearance, one being tall with fair skin, light hair and chocolate brown eyes while the other is short with tan skin, dark hair, and bright blue irises. Even with these differences, they both look marvelous in their costumes, which consist of stone grey tunics that fall in majestic creases from circular golden pins at their shoulders. Each wears a golden wreath headpiece such as ones ancient Olympians wore, the golden leaves crafted to the exact detail as if it were truly growing. Their skin is painted grey and then brushed with a pearly powder of some sort, giving them an appearance of having stone skin. All in all, they appear to be two statues, elegantly carved, but emotionless. Both their faces are void of expression as they give practiced waves to the crowd. Even though there had been more reaction to the previous cart, I can tell that they still pulled in many sponsors tonight.

Three is next, and I am surprised that it's actually better than most years. The girl, Vienna, has her previously choppy, straight hair now trimmed even and curled, and it frames her pale face beautifully. She looks dainty in a black dress with yellow lace accents and tiny machinery parts. Very feminine, it expands out at her hips and stops just above her knees, showing off her small waist and skinny limbs. The boy dons a suit that is supposed to look like a circuit board. It's very detailed, and there are copious amounts of wire protruding down the sleeves and all around the legs. It's very fashion forward, and I would consider getting a suit like it if it weren't for the fact that I could be accused of favoritism. Maybe if he were to win it would start a trend and I'd be able to get away with such a thing, but such an outcome is unrealistic, considering the boy's Reaping. I shudder at the memory of it; how embarrassing for one of our top Victor-producing districts. For him to make a comeback in the Likability category would be impossible. The display of fashion on these two boosts their Sponsor rating, though, and it may help him a small bit. Of course, the costumes are a million times better than the robot outfits of last year, and I give the stylists credit for improving upon their previous failure.

Next I spy the two oceanic beings from Four. The girl, Aimee her name is, has pink metallic scales layered down her body, moving along every curve from her hips to her toes, and ending in an outburst of pink fabric like the fins of a mermaid's tail. Seashells white as salt sit atop her head forming an oceanic tiara, as well as on her wrists as bracelets. Her long golden hair is situated to cover her otherwise bare chest. The boy is dressed almost the same, with scales the most beautiful shade of turquoise and a large crown of silver-painted shells in his shaggy black hair. In his hand he holds a green-blue trident, which may be against the rules seeing as it is a weapon and tributes cannot possess such before training begins, but upon scanning my large stack of paperwork for tonight, I see his stylists have classified it as a prop and slipped through that loophole. Slightly annoyed, I make a mental note to revise the restrictions for next year and to move Zair back a few districts. That'll show him.

Something in the girl's eyes tells me she's feeling very awkward at wearing no top - although no one else seems to notice this but me - but halfway down the runway the boy whispers something in her ear and she glares at him for a second before recomposing her face into one of intense enthusiasm and waving at everyone in the crowded stands. I wonder what he whispered, but whatever it was did the trick; they're both appearing as if they're enjoying themselves, and the crowd is cheering louder than they had for the three previous districts combined. Both look magnificent, if I do say so myself. The way the spotlights shine on the metallic fish scales is very eye-catching. People will be falling over themselves to sponsor these two. Tzipora will certainly be getting a promotion for coming up with this one or at least a raise in her salary.

Five passes by almost unnoticed. Both the girl and boy are small and timid-looking in an overused lightning bolt theme. A black suit for the boy Jakob with golden and white accents around a large lightning bolt largely makes up his costume. For Breya it is a little more complex: a black dress that is lacy and tutu-like around the waist and a golden sash, with golden pumps, which definitely do not work on a thirteen-year-old. Both have golden streaks running through their hair, but it's barely noticeable on the girl in her light blonde mane. In my opinion, these two don't strike me as threats or even major players. I don't think either will do well in training, but it might be too soon to tell.

When the fifth chariot turns and I can finally see Six in full view, I almost laugh. Instead of live horses pulling the cart, the stylists have had mechanical steampunk stallions crafted for the job. Bronze metal plating shines as flanks. Wheels are concealed in the horseshoes and the fuel emissions are fuming from the nostrils. It really is a spectacle. I can't help an impressed smile from escaping onto my lips. The pair being pulled in the chariot are quite remarkable as well. The outfits… not so much. Train conductors? Seriously? That's almost worse than coal miners. Almost. With both of them dressed in denim overalls and tall blue pinstriped conductor's hats, I can tell that the stylists put more effort into designing the horses than the tributes. That may be the pair of stylists that I cut from the lineup for next year. Having an impressive cart is not an excuse for having pitiful costumes.

I was impressed by the girl for showing grit and not fear as of yet, but her manners need some work until they are acceptable by Capitol standards. I saw her openly spit in public at the Reaping – disgusting. The boy seems charming enough; with dashing good looks on his side, I can see him appealing to teenage girls of wealthy sponsors. Yasmine's friend starts giggling uncontrollably as he blows kisses to the crowd. At that I can't help but roll my eyes; I just hope Yaz isn't so impressionable.

The two from Seven are, as always, dressed as trees. Two evergreens, by the looks of it. It must be very uncomfortable to wear a costume like that, considering how hot it is this time of year. But in the words of my daughter, "Style before comfort!" And even though the tree costumes aren't very stylish, at least they're on the right track. The pine needles are individually thin cut ribbons that are coated with a spray to make them stiff, all converging at a point a few inches above each tribute's head. There isn't much maneuverability in the things, so they basically stand and give half-smiles. The boy looks as if he might be sick with fright, poor thing; he'll have to learn to get over shyness if he's to win this thing.

Eight looks nice and being the district that produces textiles and fabrics, I always expect brilliant fashion from them. Both the boy Artell and the girl Lace don skin-tight neon-green spandex suits that cover every inch of skin below the neck. Draped over their shoulders are colorful patchwork-quilt-like capes that appear to be light as a feather, billowing in the breeze as they move forward. All the different patterns and designs on the hodge-podge cloaks provide a nice detail and the solid color spandex ties it all together somewhat. The two tributes have been instructed to place their hands firmly on their hips, looking forward with dignified grace. It gives them a noble look, as if we are beneath them. It's a powerful statement, and it earns my respect. I applaud Eulalie for her work on this district; she always knows just the right way to approach things.

The chariot from Nine is pulled by two purely tan mustangs. Inside, the boy and girl are matching in color, with a tan suit and dress, respectively. From their shoulders protrude long sticks which I suppose represent wheat. At the ends of each stick are fuzzy strings, adding to the appearance of District Nine's biggest industry. It's great in signifying their district, but I fear it's all too plain. The audience needs something to grab its attention, and brown just isn't a color that screams 'look at me!' The two kids are enthusiastically waving and smiling, the girl even blowing kisses. I think these two have the determination to make it far, but I don't know how they'll fare against those that preceded them.

Ten is the same as usual. The boy is tall as can be, as gangly as a scarecrow, and the girl is merely a wisp, tiny and fragile. For the livestock district, there usually aren't many choices for possible costumes, and this year the team has gone with cowhide patterned jumpsuits. Simply hideous. The large sleeves and pant legs bunch up at the elbows and come to baggy lumps at the feet. It appears that the stylists didn't spend much time at all on tailoring outfits or even making sure they were the correct size. I've now revised my decision on which stylists to cut from the elite ranks. Here neither the cart nor the tributes are impressive, and it's obvious that there was a lack of effort. Shameful.

Eleven, though, is a pleasant surprise. Two brown speckled horses pull the white-gray chariot, in which stand the two best dressed teens of the night. The boy is devastatingly handsome, his dark hair adorned with a crown of bright green feathers. His stylist decided rightly that they should show off more of his toned body, only covering his lower half with the green silken material and more feathers, and even there, coverage is minimal. The girl is looking gorgeous, also. Her black hair falls in ringlets, purple-red feathers woven in here and there. She wears a feathered dress of the same color, which has two wings positioned on the back. Her caramel skin is flawless and glows with a beauty that which I have not seen. Together they look like two exotic birds, about to take flight. Oh, it's just fabulous to see. Akella and Bravery will definitely be getting promotions for next year. This type of talent shouldn't be wasted on a lower district; three or four would be a better assignment. Of course, this year they have better tributes to work with: Danaya and Brandon are both beautiful people in themselves, and with their new Capitol enhancements, they'll have no problem picking up Sponsor after Sponsor.

Twelve is almost nothing compared to the chariot before them. They wear the usual mining suits, which are plain and almost dirty-looking. It's as if the stylists obtained their materials directly from District Twelve. I've been to Twelve, and nobody there is big on hygiene. I commend the prep teams for making these two at least somewhat presentable. Turning animals into humans is never an easy task, but with hard work it can be done.

The last chariot joins the others at the end of the runway, facing President Moon as he gives his annual speech. I space out, as I've heard this speech several times in the past month at rehearsals and such. I review my notes and profiles on the children, making little marks with a red pen of my predictions. Oh, this year's lineup is more than I ever could have asked for. A few strong volunteers, a few younger tributes, oh they're just so diverse. There's at least one compatible with every hazard we have designed. It'll be exciting to see which ones escape the initial Bloodbath, because as of now I can't tell which would be capable of doing so. I can't wait to test out all the tricks we've set up in the Arena on them. It's going to be _fantastic_.


	17. Impress Someone

**M5, Jakob Maniatacos**

"Oh, boy. Here we go," the boy from Six mutters under his breath next to me.

The narrow elevator is slightly crowded with four tributes standing around anxiously on the way to the Training Center for Day One of embarrassment. Breya and I had been wary to stand so close to the two 'Six toughies,' as my partner refers to them as, but seeing as there's no other way down and I want to get as much time working as possible, we'll just have to deal with it.

I try to stand up straight and look confident but my confidence is waning as I compare myself to these two. They're both impressive in physique and look tough as the screws and gears they must work with back at their district. The girl especially; I've never seen a girl so crude and tomboyish. Well, maybe I have – my second grade teacher was very man-like – but there's something different about this Ryder person. She seems to have an unconventional beauty about her that makes her seem more attractive than she puts on.

I grit my teeth and look away from the others. I didn't come here looking for a girl, so I can't think about things like beauty. She's not my type anyway.

What I need to do now is focus on the plan. This is anyone's game right now. While those who already have knowledge in combat and survival may hold an advantage right now, if I use my time wisely in Training I can close that gap somewhat.

My plan to glide under the radar until training might have worked just a little too well. Last night during the recaps, my stylist Gracious commented on just about everyone before us more positively than she did about Breya and I when we came around. Arliss, Breya's stylist, also muttered to himself about all the things he wished he had done differently, thinking I didn't hear him.

Really, I hope to gain back the wow-factor in training that I'd not received in the opening ceremonies. I don't want to draw too much attention to myself, but maybe prove to the Gamemakers that I'm not weak. Also, impressing a possible ally would be nice. I think it might be a really big advantage if I go in with more than one person, but I'd need to put myself really far out for that. My goal for the first day is just to impress someone.

The elevator comes to a stop and the awkwardness of these minutes of silence seem intensified as the doors slide open to reveal about half of the other tributes all staring over at us from where they're standing. I grab Breya's quivering hand and we scuttle and join at the fringes of everyone else.

For a few minutes nothing happens, but after a few more groups show up, namely the pairs from Twelve, Ten, and Nine, an instructor appears from the left side of the room and immediately we fall into line in a semicircle around her. We stand that way until a few more groups, Eleven and Seven, appear from the elevator and join in. Seeing that everyone's now here, the instructor starts her introduction.

She fixes a few strands of shiny black hair behind her ears and clears her throat before saying, "Welcome." Her voice echoes around the far-away walls. "Over the course of the next three days, you will each attempt to sharpen your skills in various survival methods. The info you gather here will likely determine the overall winner of the Games. The one of you who survives must be proficient in several areas, from hand-to-hand combat," at this she gestures to a small penned-in area to the left, like a boxing arena, "to archery," she uses one finger to point to a long range with targets set up in a far corner, "to even something that may seem trivial, such as camouflage or knot tying," she spreads her right arm and gestures to a grid of two dozen or so stations set up with hoards of supplies.

The tributes from the Career districts are getting antsy and smiling around at everyone. The boy from Two catches me looking at him, and I quickly turn away. It scares me how excited they are. Don't they know what they're going to need to do in order to win?

The instructor senses that they're ready to get started and continues speaking. "My advice to you is to visit as many skill stations as possible. Being well-rounded is the key to the game." She pauses and looks around at each of our faces, as if deciding who will die and who will live. "Remember, there is no fighting allowed between tributes. Save your quarreling for the Arena." This gets the Careers snickering again, and I cringe. I really need to watch out and stay away from these kids. The training woman looks around us again and finally, with pursed lips, says "You may begin."

Half the kids immediately race off, some to survival stations, the Careers to the weapons. I stand still for a second and decide where to go. Knot-tying is important for traps and such, so I resolve to start there and work my way around to the other classes throughout the day. Breya had already walked to the camouflage station, so I guess she'd be alright without me. To be honest, I don't think she wants to ally with me anyway.

The instructor spends about half an hour trying to get me to understand the basics, but I can't really grasp the subject. Every time I think I have it, he points out a flaw that unravels the whole thing and I have to start over. At one point I managed to tie my own hands together, and the man just chuckled and unwound the rope.

I finally get a simple trap set up correctly after a dozen errors, when the girl from Twelve walks over and stands behind me. She's about two arms-lengths back, but she doesn't say anything and just watches what I'm doing over my shoulder. It's a little unnerving, but I try to ignore her.

The instructor glances up at the girl and then back down at my trap. "Nice job! Would you like to try a more complicated trap, next?"

I pause for a second and then nod my head. The man shows me the steps and watches me fail at it once, correcting as I went. He then leaves to go off somewhere, perhaps on a break, which I didn't know they were allowed to do, but it apparently gave the Twelve girl the opportunity she wants.

"Hi," she clasps her hands behind her back and steps to my left side. I'm sitting in a chair and she's standing, so her shadow falls on my half-complete trap.

I slowly turn just my head and study her face. She seems to be studying me as well. Her actions so far haven't been positive or negative yet; she just seems to be testing everyone else. Her hazel eyes have a kindness in them, but what strikes me is how thoughtful they look. She stood out to me during the Reaping recaps because she didn't flip out or cry as a lot of others did; she just tried to take it as well as possible. Kind of like me.

The girl raises her eyebrows and I realize that I haven't said anything back yet. "Oh, hello," I try to say casually.

She still just stands there and my jaw moves up and down as I try to figure out just what it is she wants. "Can I help you with something?" I say very slowly, pausing a little after each syllable.

Her eyebrows slant downward but her mouth remains in a smile. She looks like she knows something obvious that I don't, and that I should really know what it is. "My mentor told me this morning that you were interested in an alliance?"

"Oh right," I half-whisper to myself. I had totally forgotten that I told Valo about that on the train. I'd even forgotten her name. Woops. I guess I'd been too preoccupied with the thought of filling my mind with knowledge today that that prior knowledge sank to the back of my mind.

Well, that just made this awkward. I feel my cheeks get a little red and the girl laughs a little at my embarrassment.

"If it's still an open position, I'd be happy to accept your offer," she stands there a moment more before adding, "I'm Adira by the way." She steps around the booth and sits in the instructor's chair. "My district partner is practically ignoring me, so-" she trails off and looks away, but she doesn't look irritated or unhappy. She just looks distracted.

I turn my head to see what she's looking at. On the opposite side of the room, but still in full view, are the Careers from Districts One and Two – but not Four for some reason. The dark-skinned boy from Eleven is apparently having a heated discussion with them, his big, broad arms moving all around as he speaks. Then when he's finished, the four Careers look at each other for a moment before bursting into a round of cackling laughter. It's so loud that almost all the tributes and Gamemakers turn to see.

The poor Eleven kid just stands there, balling his fists as they laugh at him. He doesn't even leave until his petite district partner comes up to him and pulls on his arm until he follows her.

Adira's face, which has been pleasant and happy thus far, turns into a scowl as she watches the group from Eleven move shamefully away from the others. "Damn Careers, thinking they're so much better than everyone else."

"Well, they volunteered to come here, so they must be lacking in intellect," I say quietly under my breath. This gets a chuckle from her and I smile.

We joke around for a while after that and she bests me at trap-making, but I truly think I've made a worthy choice in my first ally.

* * *

**M11, Brandon McGregor**

Training. It's possibly the most important part of the Pre-games. I'll obviously have no problem with it, but I still have jitters as I think about my plan that I have to put into action today. I have to impress the Careers and secure an alliance with them. No big deal.

Danaya, who's been acting really sweet towards me since we've been Reaped, tiptoes around the Training Center with her arm linked through mine, timidly looking around at all the other tributes. I haven't really had any time to myself yet, but that doesn't matter because I kind of like having her around. She's like a little sister that agrees with what I say because I'm older, except she also has her own ideas of how to get the things we need, and I like that about her.

Not everything about my plan has been going in the right direction. At first, I had decided to just straight-out ask the Careers if we could join their alliance. Danaya had been against it. I know she has good ideas, but she's not my boss and I really don't have to listen to her reject _my_ ideas, so I went along with it anyway, which in retrospect was a terrible idea. Not only did they not give any thought to my suggestion, but they laughed. They laughed right in my face. Every single head in the Training Center turned and watched us be publically embarrassed. I didn't know what to do and I had to be pulled away by Danaya.

I need to show them that they're wrong, that they need me, but I don't know how. The part of my proposal that they'd not been too keen about is when I said I wouldn't join unless my partner was accepted as well. They took one look at the tiny, fragile kid and laughed.

To be honest, I agree that she's not much of a contender. I mean, she can't lift anything heavier than 30 pounds, she can't climb to save her life, and her aim is so awful that there's a high probability that she'll end up hitting herself with a dart. With any luck, she'll be dead in the initial Bloodbath and I won't have to worry about her any more.

"Where should we go next?" Danaya sweetly smiles up at me and I get snapped out of these terrible thoughts.

"I was thinking about working on my sword skills," I look over at the station surrounded by blue training dummies. The damn Careers had moved on to archery together and I was hoping to get in some practice without being ridiculed. "But I was also thinking," I slip my arm away from hers and look down into her large, jade eyes, "that you could go learn a skill at one of the survival classes."

Her face looks skeptical; as if she's figured out that I'm trying to get rid of her. I can almost see her mind ripping apart my intentions and trying to make sense of them. But her face, which was calculating one moment, turns carefree again in the blink of an eye.

"Fine," she sighs as she turns slowly prances over to the large library area. Books upon books are stacked on shelves over there at least ten feet high, a limitless supply of knowledge waiting to be absorbed by a ready mind. Hopefully she'll find something useful to spend time on.

Free from that dead weight, I walk briskly across the expansive grey tiled floors to the swords. Halfway to where I'm headed, the chick from Eight completely runs into me. "Watch it," I growl without thinking and continue on. I don't even stop to cherish the surprised look on her pointy face.

The swords hang in their racks when I get there, their metal hilts gleaming and the human replicas standing nearby, waiting to be mutilated.

The instructor stands nearby, his arms crossed over his chest. For a moment he just stands there and looks me up and down. I feel a little embarrassed, but in all honesty I have nothing to be ashamed of. My stylist and prep team told me multiple times yesterday that I have a perfect body, toned and strong, and that I could win this thing with my hands tied behind my back. I subconsciously flex my muscles as the man stands up.

"Every swordsman needs a proportionate sword," he drawls as he trails his bony fingers along the handles of the weapons. His hand stops as it comes across a titanium blade with its hilt wrapped in red leather. The man picks it up and holds it out to me facing down, saying, "Try this one out."

I grasp it in my right hand and look at it. I can see my reflection in the edge of the blade, my face hard and cross. I switch hands a couple times before it feels just right, then I lash out at one of the stationary azure figures, chopping one arm off at a strange angle and planting the sword into where ribs would be.

My eyes move to the man and back to the mannequins. "Very good," he grins, showing all his sharp teeth. He moves over to me and places his hands on my shoulders, pointing at where my sword hit the dummy as he spoke, "But a wound like that will not kill one hundred percent of the time. If you do wish to kill immediately, slash limbs, but also go for the head. Now try again."

I close my eyes for a moment, envisioning my move before I make it. Then I take a deep breath and launch myself at the figurines.

Left and right and up and down, I slash my weapon. It waves around my body, only narrowly missing my skin a few times, but slicing the blue membrane on the human forms to pieces and knocking a few to the ground. As I turn around, I kick out with my right leg, causing one armless dummy to fly back and skid seven feet across the floor. To another I give a swift punch to the throat – it reacts as a normal human body would and the head jerks back – and I finish the job with the sword, skewering it through the very center of its torso. On and on I go, combining hand-to-hand combat with the deadly edge of the sword, until the last figure fell straight back with my sword travelling vertically through the top of its skull.

I already knew how to fight – maintaining superiority was hard work back in District Eleven – and this is just adding a sword to my prior technique. The weapon is hard to work without endangering myself, but it's still all so much easier than I thought.

"Great job, great job," the instructor man is clapping slowly, and my face breaks out in a smirk. "Your sword strokes are a little sloppy though, try to vision exactly where you want it to go, and don't just wave it around randomly." He continues talking but I space out because I've caught sight of something in the corner of my eye. Or should I say someone?

The boy from District One is staring over at me from his group of companions; not smiling or scowling or talking, just staring.

I have a feeling he saw me just now, and that's really good for my plan. I start smirking again and turn away. Maybe he's thinking about how wrong they were. I have to keep impressing them or they'll lose interest.

The instructor keeps talking to me, and I tune back in. What's he even criticizing me for? I was fantastic. In the Arena, there won't be a soul to stand a chance against me. All these crying little kids and big tough actors will fall, and I'll be the first Victor of District Eleven to win in years.

The instructor stops talking and looks at me. It takes me a moment to realize he's waiting for some kind of answer to something he'd said, and as I stand there with my mouth slightly open, his eyebrows rise higher and higher up his forehead.

"Oh, yeah, right," I finally say, hoping what he'd asked was a yes-or-no question. It appears to confuse the man, so I guess it wasn't But no worries for me; the guy becomes distracted by the approaching tribute boy from Nine, who looks nervously from the swords, to me, to the trainer.

He walks up to the man and the instructor begins to size him up like he had done to me. I take this chance to slip away, throwing the boy an intimidating look as I pass. I can train more with these swords later. For now I think I've proven my point. I'm a contender. I am a force to be reckoned with.

My eyes dart over to the Career boy who had been watching me. He's still looking, just less noticeably. His arms are crossed over his chest and his head nods ever so slightly, but when he sees me looking back, he turns away, talking to one of his 'friends.' I can still see his eyes glancing over at me, though, so I believe my mission for this morning has been accomplished: Impress someone.

When the lunch bell rings, I stride off to the cafeteria with a skip in my step, for I know that this is the start of great things.

* * *

**A/N - It's been ages since an update, but I hope to start having more time to get chapters written and uploaded in the future. Please review and thank you so much for reading!**


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